Life is a hurricane full of fauces and
feathers.
In a twist its fangs go deep on you and
chew you, in the other one it covers and caresses you.
The night is a sea of bat wings that fall
down over us as an avalanche.
The caress of silky wings moves some and
drives others mad.
Forgetfulness is a marsh of oil that
gulps everything down.
Every now and then, the most luminous
flowers come out of its waters. Shining.
Desire is a tide of foamy mist that
sticks as it strokes the skin that goes forward rattling. It is the air that
closes.
Dawn is a wave of modest and sparkly
faeries with little bells on their feet.
Only birds and the river embrace so much
luminosity.
Pain is being inhabited by a castle with
doors that open and close, screeching and slamming.
It is the corridors we walk endlessly.
Anger is a wounded beast that runs
through the veins scratching the guts.
It is an ivy that suffocates the viscera.
It is stabbing the water.
The day is an uproar, an explosion, a
tweet concert, is the wind rising, is wings and photosynthesis. Comes and goes
and goes around.
Doubt is a lost tide, never wanted, never
expected, never forgotten.
Comes and goes, grows and shrinks.
Sometimes, it seems to disappear.
Sadness is a flock of swallows flying in circles
inside the chest.
Every now and then, one of them crashes
against the heart.
The afternoon sun is an omen epidemic
that ends up in a very red sunset full of green clouds. As it were.
Ego is a ravenous monster.
Blind and deaf, lost in a labyrinth, it
only knows its own size and the flatteries that feed it.
Hate is a wick looking for the sun, a
volcano in the iris, a worm coiled under the skin, the sweetest drug and the
biggest promise.
The sea is a
wreckage, a déjà vu, an insomniac dream, the silence that roars, the sleepy
horizon. It is what we were, what we are and will be.
