Going Back

At present, everything takes me to its opposite -- a full-bloomed rose buries me along its thorny axis, awakening means sleepwalking in an unknown world, I speak in a diagram with arrows pointing back.

I spend my life nourishing myself with hunger, follow guides in and out rain that erases my features, moulds my face with liquid bronze dripping from open jaws.

When asleep, a baby-born moon paints silver the inside of my eyelids and in this metallic light, I follow you along days that blow away like poppy petals leaving the scent of a red wind, then, nothing.