By the silence of the bed

Nothing is here
but a dream inside my pocket pulses.

white words, pure crystal,
breakable verbs & tomorrows:
it's me fainting again
after the last unreachable conclusion

All I have to offer is my shaped tears,
my anti-existential truth,
my silent unread poetry.

But

Who will read my constant disorders?
Who can understand a poet
& his ever pregnant pain?

There is a dream pulsing
suffocated by what will never be.
There is a carnation bleeding
in me.

Alexis 2015