Vertex of a poem
geometric walls
angles that fall asleep
in retinal labyrinths
concave.
The books germinate
its green sap in arid
hands, long as furrows.
Ideas bite my tongue
about to pronounce
words.
They disappear in circles
of smoke and oblivion.
The moon burns in dreams
sheds light on the ceilings
rectangular, from there
stray cats tear
the crescent moon
I think of you outside the borders
of memory, harvesting
sunflowers in your pupils
of dawns, searching
in your thoughts my face.
Drawing a smile
on the horizon of your lips
like a red sunset
in your memories.
The page is a cemetery
of ideas, lines without words.
Figure drawing game
geometric, lines like streets
infinite, squares with triangles
such as roofs, towers and bell towers.
A woman's face that looks at me
deep into the eyes
and a mouth that desires me,
I drew only the face, I didn't want to
draw heavens, nor hells.
A game of chess perhaps
I lost the desire to write
that today I can't find,
I randomly search for polyndromes
and capicuas.
Or I dive into the cobwebs
of heptagons, concave
polygons, hypotenuses
and theorems, feeling the weight
From the look of Pythagoras.