quarta-feira, 20 de setembro de 2017

Dying to be

I see the world through fragments
With little pieces of glass flying through the air.

I am legs in the same way I am eyes.
I am thighs in the same way I am arms.
Weapons which I am none.

None of them with the same rythm
All of them with different sounds.

I feel the cracks of a crystallizing view
With sharp edges cutting me through.