by paolo macariola
You listen
to the twilight of tarots
and sculpted a dark horizon
of meaningless stars
for you, it was the will
of the gods
written in the palms
even before our souls
found flesh
you depart
invisible like starlight
reflecting moonbeams
in the wake of April.
I listen
to the voices in my head
seeking flesh
but for you
it must be
the will of the gods
as i sculpt scarlet patterns
that bleed
twilight
screaming at irrelevant stars
i depart
(for the one residing in some far galaxy, making the stars meaningless)
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