| The wall clock
announcing the 6:23.
the past with thirst,
and this is an athlete with no feet.
as are the 6:43
and the body of the minute that happened.
I said well you live here you like it or not.
and brings home the nostalgia in my head.
and give the 6 to 50.
Who told you that I
was the dream that once dreamed.
Who told you
voltearías my future upside down.
as are the 7:16,
and the body of the minute that happened.
I said I ruined your strategy,
is not only going to learn to live alone,
if you are guts ...
The house is nothing,
a cemetery of stories,
buried in mass graves,
some call memories.
minutes
like salt in the wound,
I miss the life
spending the clock.
minutes
are the morgue of time,
corpses of moments
not ever again.
no clock back to back.
As hurts spending
the instant in which you're not already.
as it costs to fight
with things that do not come back more.
as are the 9:23
and the body of the minute that happened,
makes fun of my desire to kiss
The photo you stopped placing on the bureau.
my solitude is your revenge.
The ministry of time
put on my seat cushion,
Hence you find moments
although it is no good.
minutes
like salt in the wound
I miss the life
spending the clock.
minutes
are the morgue of time,
corpses of moments
not ever again.
no clock back to back.
Minutes making fun of me,
minutes fury of the sea,
minutes of a passenger train that is not going anywhere,
minutes or hail of salt,
minutes of a fire in the skin,
minutes outsiders who come and go without saying,
minutes that hurt me without you,
minutes that do not pay pension,
the dying minutes of yesterday will form the battalion,
minutes to steal the light,
minutes that I oxidized faith,
minutes while tenants can take time,
enjoyed dying minutes,
minutes that did not take place,
minutes that crashed in my ... are camicaces of God |
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