The callused feet bleed in the neon shop windows

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: November 07, 2018

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Submitted: November 07, 2018

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The callused feet bleed in the neon shop windows. The void creates the abyss within the thunderous metal. Null, silent, dead, not warmed by aquamarine. Useless, weak, sober near the dock and the station. Dissolved, foggy, forgotten, dreary, unidentified and uninvited in the call lists and in the changes of colors. Under the Eastern Star feels Western, captive, anxious, crazy, false, indifferent and cruel. Is woven from the threads of yesterday and is the cold in the current of heat behind the cement wall, on the glass of the vaporous windows. Entangled, stinging, unloved, guilty in rumors and rushing rivers, swollen like ice in huge clouds. Thirst strangles with mirages of waterfalls that fall from the sky. The fragility of the heart reflects the boom of the disappeared carnivals. In the asphalt crossings are the labyrinths made of dead ends, where a burning wind twists the dust, which settled for centuries.


© Copyright 2018 Igor Mit. All rights reserved.

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