the Sill

Above, red and golden circles are spinning
And I am here in the Room with no doors or floors,
looking through its only window.
separated from your World, crossed by the wooden frame
trapped within the dusty squares of the glass depths.

Angels and freaks' children  are hanging
on the blue roof, crucified for Jesus's sins
Old Tree branches are ripping off my veins
spinning them into hieroglyphs of screams
that, only I can hear.

As my last feather falls, inked, blooded red...
I will lay my head on the Pillow of torn dreams
wrap myself in the wings of the Black Oblivion
to search you there...
behind the frozen lenses of my eyes.

When the sun completely burnt behind my eyelids
I will meet you there...
opening those unexisting doors.