Poetry

Sometimes death lives for eternity, 
a captive of silence, 
or in hidden journey to flesh; 
unless the body betrays the falling stars from eyes. 
 
Dying was an appropriate thing 
a festival of freedom for veils, 
to leave you alone with your morality. 
 
This terrible life ejects you 
on the gravel to become a stone. 
The fall from the beautiful height 
was meant for charity. 
 
No body wants to die for a toss-up 
with life, 
for a secret game of tears and smile. 
The true thing of despair generates 
a darkness, whom I owe my light.