Lying on the cot,
my weight so enormous,
and the faint beating of the brain,
it was magical light,
of a bard
singing
angelic

Anxious, hoarse,
lute-like,
pronounced with ample
disdain,
in the laconic rhyme
one night,
No sky

●₪●₪●₪●

I dozed, thinking poetry,
I dreamed a dream
inside a dream,
my song sank without weakness,
swarming,
to the rhythm of the dream
silence

As if it were the last
versed,
for another just like me,
writer of the shady sonnet,
on wind blades,
transparent

●₪●₪●₪●

I did not dare to look,
I only heard, the cruel game of my mind,
and tenuous, to the heart,
in a manifest ritual
with the horrible, tick, tock,
of a clock called
death

Those, concise in cadence,
drumbeats, with an ostentatious creak,
they made me motionless on the cot,
between two realities
that I didn't want
to debate

●₪●₪●₪●

I was submerged in nothingness,
swallowing my rambling in the dark,
choppy words
they appeared in my mouth,
unable to cross
the unemployed
expiration...

Winged angels,
in infinite dance,
took the form of eminent frustration,
trapped in a dream, dark,
my two hells,
and me,
guided by his light
to hell
Next...

_END

_{[Original Content]
@nachomolina2}

_{venezuela
2022}

_{Resources: Image}

_{Here you can read the Spanish version: link}