Saturday, September 24, 2011

Time.


Butterflies in closed spaces at night,
is a curse to beauty.
Sweat burns to nothing
Blood also.

I deal with spellings.
It's what stays in my head.
Like oysters. Like a nut.
Like flakes.

A quiet and far end of the world is awake.
Nothing is too far.
Not joy. Not even the opposite.

In the currency of minutes,
I am very rich.
I am not sure about you.

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