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.
