Lips

They absorb part of our fluids that won’t be described as a hunger artist.
The words form a deviant and constant crossword.
I don’t know why the words must be safer than death itself.
The leaves are on our soil. 

The queen smiles at a lost paradise of seagulls that are echoing towards the endless end.
I listen to: “I do”.
I smile at: “I don’t fucking know what”
The fatigue’s dubious and devious.
Salt mixed with sweat’s always a precious stone upon my heart.
To echo on a lost parade of soft stars, while observing a kid on the cell, another one’s looking at a simple page.
They smile and they are greater than life; walking towards the corridor and don’t knowing, where they are; that’s life in all its beauty.
Where can the horizon lies?!
The fire’s circling the concrete atmosphere that circles the vast sea like an innuendo of stories to be told on a colourless atmosphere, like smoke upon the bridge.
The stories circle everything; a circle to be meaningless on some bar filled with beers; glasses of water that can’t be measured, coffees polluted somewhere or elsewhere.
Noises to fill, gaps to be marked as an endless atmosphere of lost echoes on a particular shyness that transforms adults into children, the magic’s to be lost on an endless journey of quietude, more pages to be filled as nebulae, permit lost particles of a concrete object and mood.
Trying to postpone a simple phrase; one scales a mountain full of sharp rocks into its vast and endless atmosphere that echo and echo towards a simple brick on a wall that remains incomplete and I wonder quietly:
- Where am I?