A year ago I wrote a poem a day or more, fewer songs than poems but now I miss them a bit 'especially those without a metric, where the words sound in itself, where all but enrich the rhetorical figures are not the thread where the game is what leads to passion.
I leave one of my poems
The Whip King
Eyes on the wall for years
hours and hours to hope in time
to seek the hidden way
Where a dipping ray of light
Hope was born in the sun
Bones dried
body of another
After winter
Past hell
Just feel it makes you realize
And the thought suffer
meat glued to
Bones death
dry skin
of infamy and pain
body animated by
Thick drawings
The scars of these
Bei days
Powder soothes the imagination
As the Emperor Whip
that scans your hours and
does not allow the sun to enter
In your sky at dusk
Only a noise
Joint pain
drops of frost
Bagnano heart
Turns
silence the voice of a child
runs from inside
Thunder 's love
Fate mocking
not alloy the
Dreaming
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