I am a thunder


Beauty is awful and awful is fair, fair as a glass, yet greasy as a candle; like a moth close to a light trap, all the kings and fools surrender their crowns for the light is too bright on the pale skin day, clouds beautiful, splendid horrors of the youth in which my body is stuck in.


I reply to the wind with the palm of my hand and pray to the walls every day for my fellow men and go back to sleep with empty eyes because inside this ribcage there’s a wilted sunflower and in the manners of the being she possesses everything else but the warm air inside my lungs.


I surrender my clothes for i can’t master this wilderness inside the head, all surrounded by a wooden fence that can barely hold this urge to be nothing, instead I contemplate your mercy, this shrine of many desires done and undone, i am shame and a piece of meat and a thunder and any other object where you can die old and forgotten.

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