The places we see and the walls we touch
are only seconds away from blasting;
bursting into sentiments and echoes
flames so high that the silence will burn,
leaving a mark in their wake, a battle scar,
the scar of every tear shed by your mother,
by the saint who promised a future,
by the nothingness of freedom.
the fire burns so bright that the earth watches
with glasses made of gold, shading your eyes
from the specks of dust which threaten to film your vision,
to surround you in a cloud of memory;
the polaroid of sins never fading, always shaking
trembling at every touch of skin
because when that brick by brick assembles
there’s no starting point of reference
the layers start to form
and there will always be no exit.

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