viernes, 13 de octubre de 2017


There is a lingering sensitivity to your carelessness;
it could be the sore eyes of the Heart.
For how long did I have them closed?
For how long have I been laying in your Earth?
There is a constant inconsistency in your secrecy;
it could be the sore awakening of the Art.
For how long have you been protecting us?
For how long can you hold the unspoken truth?

There is a remaining taste of sweet addictive heed;
it could be that it’s only satisfying while it melts.
For how long can I pretend it’s all good?
For how long can intentions mean something?


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