The owls shriek and cry
A strange numbness grips my tongue
Dry and crisp like sand it feels.
Once it was sobre, tender and sweet.
When it licks my lips to get me some sleep
It leaves some marks on it
That bleeds all in silence.
The red sleepless eyes filter the white moon
Against the starless black sky
And curses me
To usher the day
When my bleeding heart would
Spread its disease to the lungs.
My hands would hide the lips
As there would be stains of blood all over,
Froth like.
A thirsty fly would feast on my brown lips
Through which the last breath would even aspire
To be where it dreams to live forevermore.
I would run into silence
I would refuse providence
I would fall
I would crawl
I would creep
I would sleep
I would...what I ought to be.
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