Numbers

The walk of love,
If I were to become a poet will
dress with the cliche of a spiked rose.
But with this new age,
such antique thoughts will face it’s harsh inevitability.
As it burns with the legacy of the Id.
The brutality of beauty,
we all are victims of
the silent obsessive compulsive disorder.
Vintage.

The innocence that black and white possess,
sweeps my mind into the colour of love.
And as the shadow darkens,
A reminder of reality,
in which the four chambers of my heart,
cannot tremble,
in te amo.
As a young woman,
in this poisoned generation, I wait.
A miracle. A firebomb,
to shatter the hidden glass of my broken window,
so the poet inside can cease scripting
mathematical words.