At the end of my weariness I slip off my body from my soul and hang it up
I flop with my soul on the chair contemplating my weary body,
Its debility aggravates me; I scold him and turn away.
My soul slides off the chair and climbs up the window, looking for you in the yawning of the leafs, and in the murmur of the cold breeze.
It lifts up towards a glaring sphere in the middle of the scowling dark,
It loosens its lips to whisper to the glaring sphere..but:
What is the point of a weary whispering?
In farewell I am a rusty pin up on a wall with a tomorrow of demolition;
I am an elderly who swallows his days thrones piercing his heart,
I am a faded moan of a conscience drowning in life’s waves.
Am I granting my weary body a love prophecy, or a crucifixion fate?
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