Turbulence waltzes
with my waistline,
as I travel with a shadow
and an echo...
These are
no sounds of starvation,
nor resonances of retching -
It's music,
humming inside
my vaporlike volume.
Electrical fingers
intrude the iris,
and picture an abstract afterglow
of my pen.
It's as if I paint
with chalk on grey boards
and then expectorate
(phlegmless)
the dust dwelling
my lungs.
A bulging body
bewrays I'm not a fitness fan.
Yet, transpiration pours
through my pores.
Exhalating
makes the leaves rustle,
as they dance
almost synchronically
upon the synonym
of my hymn.
It's just
a matter of minutes;
then my silhouette continues
the journey of fireflies
and onomatopoeia.







That is not something you see in poetry every day. Your words as always are unique and fresh. You always find a way to remain far from cliche' and I love that about your work! Bravo!








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