NOT YOUR PUPPET

Feeling that sense of getting lost in the middle of the music, the only one
Without thinking that an audience judges
Get out of the sheet that sweats to go back into the dispersed intercourse
Over time that changes in beating a burning iron
With blood that spits and kills whoever helps, then scrutinizes
I move each strand of my puppet with subtle movements
But mine is a puppet who knows who is driving him, it is he who cuts his strings
It is the statue that is erected by enthusiasm and left to that guano he wears
A standing run, a cross on the ground
A vice, a hug, a patch, a tear, a violent silence
A voice, a mouth, a threshold, a light
A moon, a desire, a shape, a need, a woman, a pride, a retort, a sunset
A beach, a fate that I write, a fate that I live
A road that starts from here. 

%d bloggers like this: