I look at the blood drops sliding between the wrists, minced heart arising profusely from inflicted wounds. It’s chopped meat with the cold glass of your two eyes; that bit a bit it dampen the last death rattle of this consumed body.
The sad silence is intertwined into the diluted rack, ferocious vulture that makes his nest among the entrails of this dead being, uprooting bones and cells, murdering in the red ink spilled on the white, where in another time poems are written.
Rhythmic dripping of the blood clock. It adjusts the wet pages of this last story, viscous and metallic tale of penitent hands; that they only look for hot in the soul that it fades in the dark.