Wednesday, August 12, 2015


This place confuses me
with its high palm trees
dust and olives, yet I call it home

home is where you lay your bed for the night
says the travelers, the lost children never found
but home is a variation of colors of your bed sheets

this is the idea romantica you have of everything
there's nothing with the slumber but an insanity
this is why home, this places confuses you
an quenched thirst to newness

home is where you pick up your failures
like olives picked out late September
waiting to roast,
clearing from the dust.

No comments:

Post a Comment