terça-feira, 28 de junho de 2011

I wouldn’t pray for your ghosts in neon

I wouldn’t pray for your ghosts in neon
But your capillary sentences struck me
With hints of ethereal colors
Like crayons dissolved in water.
The long vowels of your lips weep in glory
Stillbearing unborne words of the eve.
If every green stare you gave to me
Killed an uncertainty of winters-to-be
I would clothe my vocabulary warmer,
I would blur the skies with steam of teas.
But what is my faith in your hair
Compared to the drafts which sway it?
What is the strength a branch
Compared to the winds which beleafe it?
If you only knew of my crystal thoughts
Behind the riddles of my reticulated cornea
You would let me share my thirst
With the swans that swim your cataracts.

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