Poetry

The roses you bring every morning
become an interval between hope and ending.
Thinking about it, impulsively I
contradict God against humanity.

Little murder here and there
of nihilism, sweet smell of faith,
taking any road to reach the climax,
to die for the zeroism.

An outsider becomes the altered hero,
you would find the unimaginable,
lamenting and bleeding, blunting
the eagerness, the spark.

We will inherit the crowned homes,
the brief interlude between crime and award.
The mud, the water, the slugs
will decide the fate of man.