We appreciate
what we have had right after...

Time is heartless but
its claws are not as lengthened...

You are speaking and
bubbles spring out of your mouth...

I walk on the street of this town
unadorned and unfashioned...

Life is a disease
that we must recover from...

In where would skies rive?
I am ardent to behold...

Parallels are delusion
otherwise, roads were endless...

It is not about the lines
it is about the capacity of silence...

And this is me:
the Prometheus of poetry...

The blood of whom they
worship: the blood of those they...

Horizon is the
paradox of arrival...

Time is spiral like a record
and now is the needle...