I inhale the musty smell illusions
who remained tied to my life
Bocas wounds
-Hands- empty
converted Prison poetry.
I do not know when my eyes dried
(Y knotted tears)
A heavy silence dug into my body
Excluding the pleasure of its corners.
And there
Or maybe I was aged
faded in some places the road
silenced burying kisses
-A love -
anonymous epitaph in oblivion.
Alma Cervantes
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