The homunculus disperses
above this valley of tears
longs to write, justify
but loneliness only spills
the foam of his only beer.
There is no ticket that fuels its existence,
in his bedroom good and evil sting alike,
it’s two foxes getting into the same trick,
their visions and clouds laden with evidence
that the key plate breaks down
when opening and closing the story in the face of the door.
I’d like to know why I’m still crying
the sky is not white nor gray,
there is no rescue of myself,
of the way in which the environment and the alien affect me,
but it’s a rain, for a long time …
It seems the arpeggio of my chronic depression,
the saddest tune with which eternity
it corrodes my bones, my many years,
and damn the thing on the rise.
Because I’m ash from the last day
And I’m burning
a deep coma schedule,
a set of chimeras without cycles,
because I am not fit,
to carry a grudge.
Yes, and I care so little,
maybe it’s not them
your decisions, your ortho rules
or my fortune at the betting table,
maybe he’s just an anchorite,
with too thick skin,
and with the biggest heart