Whether old or young
They always die
before their real time;
they reveal the last card
scratching the lottery
of a sound meaning
with rhyming fixings
and dissonant cognitive resentments;
they see all before it comes or ends;
they focus what’s blurry
and they leave the oblivious to obvious.
They pave the path
To lose it and rejoin the impossible,
Often they dive in long silence
until they burst
and screech dissonance of the ideological pain.
They are just like too much rain,
Spilling over the cracked dam.
They flood thoughts
and when drought comes
they stay red, exposed like a warning sign
of a fossil footprint on lime Earth’s terrain;
knocking life into the yet unshaped form
That is voiced as the rushing formidable truth
That unwillingly pours over
Somniloquy’s dream
Rising its presence in a tide
rushing way too high,
the mouth of two suns
to burn all pitiful words
bound with worms
of fleeting free thoughts…

Weather old or young
They always die
before their real time.

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