Tears of sleep on the edge of your dissolved head.
Liquid glass prisoner of the sins of wax.
Immobile and insane.
Paralyzed by negative outcomes.
Interior.
Memories of homes lived in.
Dusty fingers.
Fingers of disappointed child.
Your kingdom smells like summer jasmine paradise.
Your kingdom is the childhood past.
Postcards and postage stamps detached.
You are the master of lost words.
The pocellana of each of your inner places has the wounds of angels.
The skies are the result of a farewell to the horizons. Interior. Returns.
Crumbled taxes.
Magical soups.
The dead zone of the darkened mind.
Alcoholic dementia.
Forget the years.
The schools.
Mental calculations.
You have filtered out every music of your pain.
Violins sing under your bed.
The removed dust settles again.
The fingertips leave fingerprints.
Loose and redone glasses.
Stained glass windows and unlit prayers.
If you wait for the fire, you become ashes.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 