life, passion, poetry

Of being afraid

My hand stopped moving only when I slept

The light of the moon cooled down my chest

My body, my face, the heart between my lungs

They twisted until I forgot the warmth of the sun

The instant, the rush, the complements crushed

Into one pen, stolen by my hand

And I couldn’t stop moving during the day

The light, the rays, the instant warmth fed me for days

Until the innocence turned, into a grave

A grave day, for my delay, the delay of being afraid


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