No
light at the end of the tunnel
nine
am, The sun
shed
wings over its
blooms
and
the morning breeze
curled
its petals
but that was past
now
fillings
surged their
metallic
whispers
inside
-
things
were not
going
too fast
just
faster
every
time it spun
the
rage inside became
weaker
by
the fringe
too
thin to dissect
fragile
the
grief's internal
frequency
increasing
as
a tagging beat suspended
progression
into
the funnel
for
a tithe of a second
Did
I forget where I was
who
was I and what
got
me there
would
the chair or the bed
know
either
way, one thing
was
sure
It
was dark, at the end everywhere
and
the sound
of
my movement passing by
was
the only
anchor.
©
José Coelho, 2015
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