dirty high sky f

encircled by the pace of

a cloud from where we,

all together, will be crushing

down to the concrete


reality speaking consonants

maybe, maybe, maybe

I have never left

the trap of a fantasy


caught and drained and

blossoming in lies and

judgement suspended

by darkness


where gravity sucks my rooting

lines stretching out the poison

of memories exterminating its delicate

believe system to shift


to transform

to expand

via the milky juice

in my veins


with clarity and

confidence letting in

the whisteling man from the staircase

entering my fist


this moment, covers taken

by windows, open

stranding in the city; with teeth

soft and sweet; ground starts to sing.