Poetry

Becoming myself, pricking the soles
staying alive, frozen, mistless eyes.
I bite my tongue,
chewing the forbidden peel of
what you are.

Can you move with me?
With my atavistic welts?
Emptying yourself of all the poisons,
while the space was shrinking.
The golden gate is silently watching you.

Give me your hands for a quiet journey,
they are shouting to blow the dirty dreams.
Every thing is done for the vanity
of the naked paper
fluttering in the annotated fingers.