terça-feira, 22 de janeiro de 2013

Bleeding



Bleeding




Doors and windows without scenery, lights dull, something will seduce in solitude. There is no mystery that is as big as his ego. The hours pass slowly, slowly passing thoughts and nothing but walls full of meaningless words, at some time or scratched by a possible sigh.

The cold looks cozy, the floor looks comfortable, his fingers torn apart by truths, do not show any output. Her body shakes, her moan of pain is just something everyone will be invisible, deliberately torture their feeling.

One or two screams as sharp blades, rip the void. Releasing it so useless that the prison became his own body. His image is debate between the walls, letting his eyes brimming with grief, something beyond their own will want to explode inside.

All are out of control, their thoughts, their desires, their tears, their smiles, their pain and their teeth. In the limited universe of your body, not to the few remaining paths to follow integers.

Falls upon himself the weight of doubt, oozes into your pores fear. By slowly consuming her desires so heavy that the leftovers would not serve a banquet to the vultures. Not if there was more annoying hour hand, which at each turn reminded him that longed to forget, destroy.

Not left forces, left him no dreams possible, hourly punished her knees, unable to stand. It gradually disappears, his gaze lost in any line that will treat as a human being, it is a guide, a horizon. Possible outputs nightmares became distant, slowly becomes invisible, will only feel that now feels is his own blood. Forging his bed, his final rest.

Pablo Danielli

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