Poetry

Behind the iron mask, with
unsteady hands, I
separate the conjoined thoughts
and start greening.

I will ask, the god
after a chilling spectacle
of undying freeze, that
don't give me the bliss,
but only truth.

No mercy, no sympathy.
I will walk on the spiked
road to reach you in your own
sepulcher, to become you
and suffer.

Who needs eternity
to grieve for dying lights?
Darkness has its holiness.At least
you won't see the beasts in action.

O god, let the blue sky
open like an abyss to embrace
the fallen baby.