Poetry

What is that of this,
I will ask from the question
which sleeps on the twisted lip.

The probity suffers,
when you burn your white paper.
Why did not you write your name?

The cortex invades
medulla. Your kidneys falter.
The sense and price become one.

A nude opend the pride.
The curves, the slants will
ask you to become the flic,

but you become a god,
accept the knife's version
and bleed to death.