https://unsplash.com/es/@ingagezalian
It was a long time ago.
She sat on a bar stool with a whiskey in a hand
speaking loudly with some men around.
Anne was free that night
and even though it rained
she decided to go out.
We might die tomorrow
hell, we might die even tonight.
Anne knew that well.
She always used the best perfume she had
nothing in her wardrobe
for a special occasion she kept.
She had men and men had her
she loved to observe.
A "lost souls detective" he called her
the one who can read a hidden message.
When she left the bar
it was raining softly outside
and while walking through a car lot
listening to the sound of high heels
she remembered one night when she was in high school.
Anne dreaded remembering
no sense can be found
in any petty nostalgic passageway
from the past.
It came in a flash
pain in purple colour
cigarette smoke and a guitar noise.
She must have been only fifteen
when she understood how dead we really are
how small and funny
absurd and bizarre.
The best night in her life
because she won an excuse
to run away from any routine
stability and disuse.
He ordered her to bend down
chopped her head off
it rolled into the river
with her own reflection from the universe echoing all over
as above so below
as within so without
as the universe so the soul.
Comments
Post a Comment