When my fire shows me the
shadows dancing in the
ceiling​, I hold my breath and
my sinister desire, though I
discern the difference
between the shapes of spirits
& cave paintings, that blaze
burns me, that blaze burns
me. Thus, the ashes unveil my
memory, although I could wait
the whole day for the next
verse, I give up the sun;
I give up the moon, on both
sides of the outer rims of the
complicit hegemonic
discourse, but I am starving to
death. I have a headache. And
I keep going anywhere
where I am invited. Therefore,
I prefer to sit down and write
some poetry, and in hours,
I can only hear and see things. Sterile.



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