The Decanting

I have left behind my name.
With him the friends left,
shipwreckeds in waves
the covenants of the sand,
the inherited order among my old fears
and the street of the house to the day

Wandering,
but never more than before,
Nevertheless,
I found the proverbial dance of a new pollen
in my doubt suspended, pursuing nouns
to name the agony

You are -the gargoyles of my soul said-
the wounded sigh of a shadow
a time exhausted before the destiny:
the same air that you can not breathe.
You are nothing
and nothing, you have to call ...

The pores of my enigma rumbled
Only nothing? In that I have to stay?
saddened and pale, the moon beheld me:
she and I foreigners of this world
She and I wearing solitude ...
But my voice reached to become tidal,
a maiden on the edges of the queen
that dominates the immense darkness

And the night sealed us with a hug
hidden, submerged in her lap,
I made myself pink in its light: Lunar Flow

Image: "Deep Sleep"
Autor: Christian Schloe

To open this new space of expression with a poem, perhaps not the most formal way to present yourself. But it represents for me a small and customary ritual of initiation, like when someone moves into a new house and even before unpacking their suitcases, they place a photo or a loved picture on the wall. It is the personal way of invoking my angel: the word.

After that there will be a moment to introduce myself. For now, I welcome all travelers who, may be confused between the pranks of the good God Hermes, they come to give this blog.

@lasiria (another daughter of the night)