Trains whistling through the kohl of rain. 

No more echoes, no more cacaphonies. 

Only the presence of the rush and the taste of your lips. 

I am your prodigal painter, 

With only two ascending hands. 

No lights! No lights! 

Mere visibility can instill the acrimonious compassion. 

Nostalgia on the deck of a ship or any movable beast. 

My water, my air and my stars still want your putty smell, 

i guess your chaotic hair too. 

Mountains of lights all around

and i am too hungry for my obscurity. 

This choir fuels through love and sex and alcohols and every other hallucinating phenomenon under the stratosphere, 

without the sacred tremor. 

But isn’t it supposed to be other way around? 

No fairytale Bullshits today please. 

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