The voice persisted on calling me from the top of that tree.
I observed many times, nothing, except hissing leaves jerking off with the wind.
Throughout the years, I never stopped marching. Yeah a man with a mission.
Life was devouring my cells, so I blend in within the big game.
The voice persisted in calling me from a distance.
I don't know, maybe we will meet someday, I get used to his sweet speech.
Sometimes he chants to me; he addresses me his poems, and he speaks to me about his paramours.
He seemed so charming.
I wish he had a human figure so that I can be his sweetheart.
The voice persisted on calling me from the top of that tree.
Leave your dying skin, your rotten meat, your fragile bones and come to my world.
No pain, no spirits, just poetry, just music.
My world is a selected garden, dangling somewhere after the sunset.
YOU ARE READING
Letters To My Dark Friend (#Wattys2015)
PoesíaMy Dark friend, I have written those letters for you. It's getting darker before midnight .
