“I need to sell clouds,”
While triumphant carnations grew in his footprints.
“Do you to dig for more colors in the jagged rock?”
“Yes, because they are bursting beautiful, yet deceitful to their tips!” Fine hair swinging from the shock of half-lost scenes.
Facade dead and cold,
Frozen in the fraction of time
Windows modestly veiled in the shade,
Silky, shimmering, open and bright.
Crystal clear ear, but no trace,
Sparkling, gazing down in the depths
Chronic pulsating along those pipes,
whose metallic sound of their sound arose.
“I cradle the sleep in the world that I know,”
He uttered with a low whistle through closed lips.
“It is as if we already have it behind us,”
she responded, unimpressed.
A horde of rigid eyes, gray satirizes,
Frostbitten watchman, shoots dull and weak,
Witness of wild lashes, it sets the stone in motion
And allows the image to freeze.
To jagged peaks that beckon lisping,
Lips become crevices of moist quince.
“Happiness is not achieved by his death,
But by the dismemberment of its moments,”
He lifts her with a smile.
“Just like people, I attack my surroundings,
As I see fit!”
She kneels again.
“But at what price?” –
Muffled mouth around cacti filth,
Glowing with health, despite liquid purpose,
Now aflame with salty fermented fruit
It drives away the sand with tears of desire.
The swollen pores of the plaintive sisters,
Tongue-tied they run, praise and slander.
– Frank Balve –