Monday, 27 April 2009

The room in your death portrait


The way to the flesh under your skin is fractured and filled with imperfections. One always wonder if there's a divine creature flying over there when we meet these little holes of brutal error in men's fragility temples.


Everytime my hands are inside you, exploring the last pictures of life stopped under my fingertips. Time protects us from self absorbing ourselves, the mirror of self control is long ago a portrait of a lying whore. Not that we ever wanted anything different


The last sparks of hope are over now. I can feel them around me. I am the only blood bleeding inside you and for some reason that makes you shiver for the last time. Intriguing to know this. I never thought you could feel any emotion while you were still inside your body


I can see it in your eyes, scanning me from the ceiling as you watch me perform my art. You wished you had been there, done this, shared that. Too late for all those thoughts my friend. Useless, frail and broken imperfection. Such as your skull


Never ceased to feel this since the very first day. I may have a soul after all. Or maybe is just the fear of imagining that one day I will be the one being ripped open. All these thoughts will be unveiled at last, my miseries and my pains exposed to any voyeur.

Firm hand

After all, I dominate my human self and continue my way through your chest. The little heart, the bigger lies flow to surface as I see you for the first time. The discovery of where the soul should be prevents me from running back to my shelter. There it is, the magic shelter, the holy grail, the myth under my eyes.


I hold it in my hands. Your soul is soft and red, wide and vibrant between my fingers, it will soon flow away from you in search of other nerves, other rivers of
hope. For now, you warm this room and leave me with a sense of fulfilment

Fairwell now

Call me again when you find me. I will be here. Waiting for your true self. This time don't deceive me


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