Poetry

My lips are black,
I am drunk
on the hemlock, proferred by you –
my life. I am still in love with pain.

What not, the trial
tried to break my resistance.
I will walk on my hands
paraplegic legs lifting my eyes.

Why did you want me to fake a death.
She was my lover, my shadow
always walking along with me.

So, you did not authored the article
on my demise in ravines
watching the son eclipse?

Extinct, headless, corpse of a
thin warrior, obliquely refers
to the pygmy moonrise.

Grey plaques in white mind
like snakeroots, glittering
in dark gulleys of time!