On the hawse pipe
A verbal leak of paint, a fleeting thought.
A road with a facade of cards, a bluff of definitions.
Don't carry me into the nothingness of vulnerability.
I wanted to be not only in the presence of .
Without thinking, no blade will kill you.
Not even a key word in the lens.
Stop? Basically, give an answer with your hand.
Make a fist and strike, fear will burst.
On the hawse pipe, a trace of a broken rope.
On the hawse pipe, a chain of links forged.
The human strength of endurance, tired of material.
The tiny sparks of the atomic flame fade.
Where will your tear be the sky?
What will a brother's cry of fear say?
This small wick of feelings in the current.
You leave emptiness and a cavern of questions.
You have to put shoes on your feet.
Your foot begins to wander on the ground.
It alternates between navigating the sea.
The horizon of your eyes and the tangle of your imaginations.
On the hawse pipe, a trace of a broken rope.
On the hawse pipe, a chain of links.
Tired of material, the human power of endurance. The faint flames of the atom fade.
Give yourself the price of time, the clock.
There are still unwritten letters.
The tip of the mountain of chapels, the faith of the eye.
And other senses, a labyrinth of access.
And on the outskirts, the simplicity of tears.
Flowing down the face, the magic of gleams.
The salty aftertaste of a glass trophy.
Smash the heart and the bottom of the ankra.
On the hawse-pipe, a trace of the broken rope.
On the hawse, forge the chain links.
The human strength of endurance, exhausted by material, is exhausted.
The faint flames of the atom are extinguished.
