Bonfire light; or ample leap of red blood cells; the heresy of your attitude dedicated to
death, that shines in the same blood that my broken heart still sheds; beat for what?
For what? Invades the mandala’s chest of the dungeon; which analyzes the filthy and the
bleeding of those who resigned; just as you still float, still crave, squeezed between
the skin bread and the flesh stuffing of no one, still are made to perceive; as if in the
intermission between the high tide and low tide, a hand had unearthed your soul and
had inlaid it with stones of the earth’s coarse salt.
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