Entrails
In the darkest bowels of what life had been able,
or even still a remnant of a sordid and senseless illusion,
captured between the threads of the damn
that was lost between the bitter chains of hope
by creating this dungeon where that might
be nothing to tie me down and not believe,
between deceptions habitual abysmal expectations,
driven by dreams of mausoleums established by those
who thought nothing happier and would
only have the same face of the atrocious reality
deteriorated and remodeled each cut,
warping and wrapped what was left in darkness.
Do not want more than the rest,
but the chisel does not rest and that will
remain ingrained in the body decline and mixed with the soil,
a fatuous fire fading, making a final,
fleeting glimpse of light stupid and invalid ...
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