I sing to loneliness,
in a cursed language,
I celebrate exile,
and lack of temptations.

I sing to evil,
because there is also calm,
the future is impregnated,
of the acts of cynicism.

I sing to goodness,
of my own acts,
without past or destiny,
I sing to discontent.

The authors of the wind,
with its boasts of rancor,
that it has always professed.

Luck is on the air,
a verse that fills the abysses,
that sanctify and protect,
the truth of the maze,
of our own souls.


Life is fresh and dances,
delusions, fill the dark chasms,
that open when we love.

Death insists on poetry,
heaven waits its turn,
to be again,
a forbidden place.

Everything is in your hands,
that create and destroy,
and fate is ridiculous,
when nothing is even written.

A poem is absurd,
and from the laughter of a god,
that has no answers.

A verse is cynicism,
and from the hatred of a demon,
who wanted to be loved.

Death is glorious and just,
close to the caresses,
of a good farewell.

Life is trembling and alone
absent from the rhythm
that one day was imposed on it.

Unauthorized Copying Is Prohibited. Ask the author first.
Copyright 2020 LIFEINVADER
Published on Wednesday, July 29, 2020.     Filed under: "Philosophical" and "Poetry"
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