Fit
To One's Name
Simple
is dying everyday. While
letters
are being written the sun twists
its
colors – weak embryos of nights – and
rests.
Through eyes then killed
histories
of lives seeking the only purpose
fit
to one's name and
crumbling
hearts. A side effect
not
to despise, whether enjoyable or not
to
be proven
yet.
©
2017, José Coelho
