blew his head
Embrace and endure the inscrutable landscape
inhabited by shadows speaking of fear
Gathered in the horror of no return they whisper
with an infinite and pure lament collapsed
and the blurred betrayal of the icy air
that nocturnal and prodigy petrifies.
The previous moment, the last breath
disburse the emotion contained,
bleeds the vertigo of the skin,
the blow to the dam exposed the veins
resisting unlimited hunger
thickening the arteries.
The shots and screams do not belong to him,
he doesn't want to retain any of that in his network.
The booms travel far away,
the steam of ephemeral encounters
recreate the trajectory of the bullets.
Upright your beauty, does not liquidate the images,
city trails, internal rivers
sink into despair,
moves everything, touch and peace
release perception.
The touch of horror is repulsive.
He can't ask for help because he can't stand,
nor can he scream, he can only produce a lament
of a badly wounded animal, a strange snort
spreads a certain fictitious dread in the city.
The cold is more intense
death pierces the bones
the announcement of death.
A host lays eggs underground
in the sleepless corners of nightmares.
The child has the only destiny,
he hits the street with contempt and throws it down,
he knows how to get up because he only knows that
but he's on the floor and he's next.
Take his pulse? So that?
He's on the floor, it's deeper than falling.
His abyss is a cavern in his brain,
he blew his head off three years ago,
It's been three years since he only postponed this moment.
Deliver this certainty in the acts
and there is no question of his return to the ground.
If I take his pulse, the diagnosis will lie,
he will say that he is alive regardless of the rest
nor in the gravity of matter.