Sometimes we die of eloquence,
anger and judgment sewn to the grass,
before the impersonal courting
enlighten the silences.
Sometimes the throat summons
the limit of some affront,
the faded geography of penance.
But before that we honor
the repellent misery
that softens the darkness of a promise,
also the pastoral touch of laces,
a bed naked of delirium.
Sometimes we die of vacuum,
of the habit of biting
the vastness that appeases intentions
and clarifies the diluted joy of days.
Sometimes a mistake is salt in the throat,
or a shaggy flirting
open to the perplexity of the instant.
And sometimes eloquence
is liquor and venom,
as the angry sanctity of insomnia
cutting raw the pleasure
undressing other edges.
Sometimes the mouth is a pit of worms.
Fotografía: © Irie for openphoto.net