The voice that inhabits insomnia
hides behind the buzz,
his words persist
that resonate orphans of language.
A tide that repeats,
thus the fire is repeated in the corner of him,
so this wind that lulls the branches.
And this silence that chains the hours,
that squeezes this throat;
thus the absence becomes text.
There are roofs
humiliated by the rain,
toothless stairs,
patios without tricycles.
There are bipolar mirrors
that silver drops sweat
when you look at yourself.
There are wooden customs
in the most fierce swords.
There are nails burdened by his paintings,
plows buried alive
and multi-colored cobwebs
who are thrilled by fading flies.
There are toys face up,
doomed doors,
civil pacemakers,
greedy chests
and there are days
like crossed bones
on black background
and bones
arched
defeated
by the weight of the days.