I have seen him barefoot with a stick in his hands,
drawing enigmas on the ground
as the sand listens to his unreachable mind
every single day.
He speaks the language of the half-eaten winged angels.
I can't understand his forgotten words, the imprisoned artist in him.
The poet in me wanders whenever he sits in the park,
showing me a new definition of existence as if
I somehow could be different from him
when I protect my dreams from my mouth and imagination.
But in the corners of my doubts,
poems die of agony and madness.
I know nothing about him
just what the sands allowed me to see
and what I have seen is not enough
to comprehend a human being
under the stillness of the sun.
drawing enigmas on the ground
as the sand listens to his unreachable mind
every single day.
He speaks the language of the half-eaten winged angels.
I can't understand his forgotten words, the imprisoned artist in him.
The poet in me wanders whenever he sits in the park,
showing me a new definition of existence as if
I somehow could be different from him
when I protect my dreams from my mouth and imagination.
But in the corners of my doubts,
poems die of agony and madness.
I know nothing about him
just what the sands allowed me to see
and what I have seen is not enough
to comprehend a human being
under the stillness of the sun.
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