Lethal melancolia – K. B

Lethal melancolia

 

 

A soup with milk,
Aging,
Death.
A sting,
A psyche
Building power.
New rhymes and
New lines,
Each poem
A gate to freedom.
Chains,
Blood,
Sound of a whip,
And fleeing mujeres.
Most of what I’ve seen
Palely loiters around
A tomb,
The end of our spirit,
The furthest from truth
As possible.
5 am convulsion,
A warrior does not
Give in to the serpentine
Meanders of marshmallow
Women.
He buckles, unbuckles,
Tenderness is the process of getting
Colder.

 

 

K. B

 

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