Handkerchief

“It”, bitter, undergoes a metamorphosis, which creeps
You, me?
Psychologically fuzzing, burning heaps
Of “it” seems to fit nobody.

Jaded, sadly, dirty dirt
Suffocates, surprisingly a fatality
From Boots held still under a halt skirt,
A none musically, split personality.

Suppressing swift footsteps quiet
The screaming soil’s grief…
Disoriented but alert, they suspend the drama riot,
When above do they observe a vintage handkerchief.

I missed you…
I know…I’m here now

Lastly, “It” faints…

• Frederico Vicente