Crime

Waiting to say I love you

An epidermic advance of lactic facts, streets painted with gestures whose magnitude is measured by cracks. The rat has dialogue with his reflection in a puddle where perceptions are realities. Truth is that stolen notebook where speech was trapped along with invisible ink. Nothing escapes except by agreement of silence. This morning, the cuckoo doesn't ring anymore — improbable MONDAY, the time refused to pass. Poets are detectives jailed within a metaphor, searching with confused metaphors for a gold piece mentally lost.