THEGRAVEOFBUTTERFLIES

Iv

Oh what will it be?

(Good Willie) : "The only gesture is to believe or not, sometimes until believing crying "

What will become of us when no one else knows about these days? (we, the last children of the century) What will become of the victories and misfortunes? is the unknown the fervent impulse that bursts us to continue our life

Wow, transience can impact the compactness of memories that in the blink of an eye the months and decades are lost the most intransigent days will bounce off some future neural process

Perspectives build realities money sick then spend it

“This is real shit, not a drill”

Hate is in the little things every action in the production chain tends to perpetuate a crime against ourselves

"In diversity is life"

The dilated eyes that look to the train reappear from the bowels emerging from a vanishing point that stores the past and shoot the present, headlights project on the retina the placebo of the show

No one ever taught them to stop Has no one ever discerned the application of work itself?

The beatnik buddhas who sail like the ghost champions survive without watches, inside the big white cubes hidden by the spinal cord of the city

The mazes are 360 degrees between the metropolises that portray to Dante or Matisse languages and bodies converge between letters and crows

You will miss some trains from the station you'll wait for the doors to slip away or you will thank the stranger for opening them

The Grave Of Butterflies

Everything that is now will never be the same again that dream that arises in the memory as unreal weighs and calms the breath

The division of characters within the central matrix of our decisions they are 2 different desires in the same mouth

A half moon burns the clouds we sleep among the ants scorpions tickle with their sting on the burned soles of your feet

Words won't be enough to forgiveness of some crimes words have not yet been enough to stop our crying even language has limits the dead are leaving "Don't you hear the dogs barking?"

You are the days that I had faith sunny idylls, I will walk to Cintalapa to a nest of cranes (blow the clouds over their cheeks) you took me to know the dream poor cyborg snail run desperate in the indefinite loop of the pause fleeing from the salinized raindrops pastel colors stunned on a sweet aura

Perhaps it was my presence that made them perish all the butterflies that have surrounded me within this playful tropic Eternal summer bizarre frenzy

There are goodbyes that contain so much that does not fit in a single word because they would rather go to the other side of the sender

I had to go to the Pacific to spit my faults my sorrows wash your feet once more with ink the odyssey to the grave of butterflies saw that scarlet light perish of an orchid in may

In my last dream I hugged you I looked behind me everything evaporated they stay here for you my best compliments “my best cries”

You will survive by thanks and magic that you still don't understand grateful to the skin

(I had more verses but I lost them in my memory) Who made this place?

Some voices fade in time and talk others we keep in the thorax always

Epilogue

Things never stop changing... …or so you think… What will perpetuity never happen?

My disagreements with the endings they have extended this outcome by the way but this place/moment is gone now...

A sunbeam butterfly appeared from another world flew all over The Izola Zero ginning and end of this funereal labyrinth dressed in the colors of the world the high walls were fired for that beautiful yellow Lepidoptera I let the pearls rest on the crystal skull it took hundreds of words to get here over/live once more we have felt we have loved

“Every emotion been deprived even my strong points couldn't survive f I didn't learn to love myself, forgive myself a hundred times”

Here there are no more pauses despite wanting to put a root in these graves let's go straight to the end