Ice As A New Solid

Vintage Words


Gliding atop a cataclysm of rush

that descends and spirals onto lush

pillows of desired skin breathing hush

as in a whirled wind of luxurious plush.


Floating inside raw cotton with seeds

as if procreation was the fabric of needs

I am chaff from disintegrating weeds

wet sans rust, where water beads.


Glimpsing under the stand of creation

that arrives to a reclining ovation,

you are the causes in my imagination.

I inhale hard, give back hard exhalation.







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