ad terrorem increscentis audaciae
A child with
hands painted black
draws the lines
of unsoothing
clouds
Like spiderwebs
or fingerprints
they come
together
shapeless
What is the mist
now
if not traces of
grey
almost unseen?
Bring your nose
closer to the
gloss
Did you just rip
a page from the
book?
There´s an eye
peeping in the
dark
In different
backgrounds
we become other
things
Threads of hair
pull us further
down
Smells of
confinement
break through
the floor
Whatever
we touch
dissolves
into music from the right end
of
a piano,
comes
in through the ears, taking with it
all
traces of thought
How much night
can the day have?
Deer, covered in
crow´s fur,
walk up and down
infinite stairs
that lead
nowhere
The thread
hangs from the
corner of their eyes,
falls loaded
with vertigo
through dense
wholes of petrol
Then melts into suspicious lava
that drips from
the corner
of the mouths of
the bricks
on the walls
Piranesi was
never a prisoner,
yet he drew
imaginary jails.
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