Remember, young people:
behind the smile,
of the apparent gesture
of triumph,
there is a look that is lost in the sink,
a soulless grin
that runs down the drain.
There are dead on Sunday.
Shards of love
In a wasteland of oblivion
A huge wasteland
where someone named home.
Almanacs in sepia.
Round sleepless nights.
Such a pile of debt.
Poetry was on the loose
And it bit me
Bit me
Took a bite out of me
in the heart
Since then
She lives, I do not live
Where i look i see her
Her virus circulates in my blood
I am his devoted admirer
Poetry was on the loose
And she chose me
Questions without answers.
And listen well:
in the end
everybody
they die.