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.