The texture of the concrete sands the crude ways of tennis shoes that bend in perfect magic
and step with Napoleon’s aesthetics
opening a portal over the Last Supper of Leonardo
da Vinci.
Tears awaken dreams cut short
by the Never Will Be regime.
Every step hurts, the interior endures
and if feet are missing and miserable portion of the earth
there will be hands to climb to heaven.
YOU ARE READING
When I close my door
PoetryI dedicate this work to all the friends who are left in the heart. To all those who love me. In When I close my door, a social interest and a renunciation for the sake of communication is explicit, the subject destroys his exterior, recomposes himse...
