There are sparks of light,
Off the area nearby.
I can't sing to the angels,
They've dropped me down.
I'm falling in the wrong direction;
It feels like this keeps happening.
In unimaginable ways, the bathtub
Is filled and doesn't run a clear color.
Red strikes as a color yearning to be used.
My last breath to paint the walls.
YOU ARE READING
Noyadé
PoesíaA series of small works: finished works and unfinished scraps and sober thoughts and inebriated words and drunk minds and me. All of me in here.
