Drops of solitude on the face, hands held far
for misunderstanding, barefoot, chase,
between red hot sand, the remnants of the rocks
childhood. Thoughts
discounted sink
nell'orma freshly dug, where the sea lay
or scratch, retreating wave.
eyes fixed on the water, counting the rings if ...
covering the toes past, future ... galling,
... and if there will be.
Cancellation, conspiracy ... yield.
swallow hair stuck in the wind you,
from that bitter smile everywhere I look, my dream
you stupid today. I know that
runs through my head in the sky, but the point
eyes to count the rings to me.
scarring my dreams with nail lacquer,
no blood flows through the veins, but a search
of boiling water,
to wake the heart to life.
Absence, presence and words are?
Loneliness, dryness can be counted.
coloring as a nun in extreme unction,
wax eyes, thick lips, and carmine
not abused for virginity
rages the idea of \u200b\u200ba fine story.
It 's time to invent, devise a plot, which has not
odor trails,
and words appearing,
or remain faithful to the principles ...
For the choice, I repeat a child spiel: "... anghingò ..."
not remember, is tremendous:
"... three owls on the dresser ..." I try.
We need someone in the face,
make me a mirror. Fallback
hands who tried in a vacuum.
One step out of nowhere, a weary step out of nothing.
Franca
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