Poetry

What was the prophecy of 
a slow moving floating name? 
To hang a spy from the beam? 
Your face lits up. 
 
The world was translating 
the labate grief into small mirrors. 
A seed explodes. A magnetized 
book of conduct is slapped on your face. 
 
And you start reading the script 
in darkness in a beautiful retreat. 
 
The approaching night engulfs 
the moon. An anonymous fear 
takes hold of this moment before 
disappearing in an abyss. 
 
You stoke a desire to collect 
the immortal blues and headless clues 
and we crawl on the sands of time 
breaking the silence by our drones.