There is a gaping buffoon haunting
a darkness eating slowly at my desires
like a termite shrinking wood to its skeleton
demolished them down to paupers
a column of shadows scorched untraced
by boiling face, trailing tears, like eye
searching snake lost in the mind
it burns slowly like dew rolling down the window hinges of the afternoon sun.
I ask this fire, that neglects the smell
and the flesh cries of what it burnt,
where did the sun hide its golden rays so early a morning?
There is a light that slowly crawls up in my head
that the real sun might knows nothing about,
it haunts down my destructive ignorance &
blows it away like a pile of dry wind rippling feathers. Tipsy, tipsy but the pain
still unpaint step step the way forward.
There are secrets in power-bike's sounds
mechanical reasoning that cannot
go past my opulent chest no matter its speed
noise only weigh me down into worry's hole,
filled with scent of lonely earth and my deeds,
but like air and mist I vanish with them
in the art of my becoming…