And here I am, sitting.
Minute after minute,
a wound in my pupils,
behind the dark
hues of the leaves,
in a mystagogic
contemplation of you.
In intercourse,
in a metaphysical swing,
soar oneself
into the universe of existence.
How I long to explain to you,
in what way,
in the contours
of a dark recess,
I learned
not to be afraid
of that which is vacuous,
trying to keep existence hanging,
on the stamen of
prosaic equilibriums.
Todos los derechos pertenecen a su autor. Ha sido publicado en e-Stories.org a solicitud de Mauro Montacchiesi.
Publicado en e-Stories.org el 24.10.2016.
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