Sometimes you feel

Sometimes you feel

Whenever you open your eyes inside, in spite of everything,

it comes back to you.

Even if the sand runs without permission through the hours of your back and the rock

and the cornices,

it comes back here.

You feel the tedium and the well-known farce

and that cold look knowing you're a loser

Riding in the cracks of the dawn

looking for the words,

a hundred souls show sores.

Trembling from the light in the morning,

you think of yourself.

Luck and morgue you call flame,

you corrupt red lies.

You feel that you loved

and you shattered for the ninth time

in jagged bites.

If it's wise to think and do it,

drink gagging.

If you're trying to lie

like unsent letters

drop razors of time for features that stink at last, remember your own mind.

Siesta of creaking evils, beautiful anomaly. Sorting lambs of red and prose

magnetized by the traveler's mascara

manipulating cruel chimeras

of an unexpected specter.

Don't be like so many thieves,

don't be like those lonely ones

who walk the streets of the airport, eagerly loving the tiptoes of the flesh,

consuming you as you feel less alive. The gossip of the occult

make scab to not love you

in a demented garden.

Don't function with ego.

Don't cut yourself whole.

When patient you see the precipice of a pillow,

of the regret of not understanding the uncertainty of that rough hard

silhouette, absorbing that mandate

of nothingness.

Unless you travel alone, sincere, skirting the crumbs of the road.

When you feel yourself burning inside, and hear in the distance the moan,

it will incarnate in you its nails

smashing the waves to come

and transmuting in you.

Do not harbor another destiny

for it is your stinging aching.