We just let go eachother and now we are trying to awaken ourselves from the coma.

Dreams never end. Often they come to see me

but

tomorrow will be an unusual day.

They will be here with me and I will keep them tight.

For them, the night seems much longer than our nights and we wait patiently and we champ at the bit stressed to see the day.

We are just tender patch of flesh, bones and fears. More than ever.

Your influence on me is oppressive.

I am here. We are here.

The light seeps through the great white window and the time goes slowly.

And we keep on waiting the day.

Bones are breaking

and
You can see the the rifts disseminating in the mirror

But in this city there is too much fog for living. And your skin smells lovely like Camelia.
Is you coffee warm enough?
                                                  - No, I just want to rest.

And your eyes are red. And your face is pale.

And yet I didn't recollect faded photographs.

                                             You have a magnificent iris when you don't gaze.
And I am just flesh.

All around her room, while she's in deep agony.
There are some creatures that fly upon her body.
They seem like dancing while the air passes through their fleeble wings, letting them glide.
They flop down chaotically and in transport they hit her, they cover her eyes with their huge misshaped wings.
They grasp, envelop and choke her. It's an undefined, convulsive, crippling huddle.

It's daytime.                                                           It's night time.                                                           It's distortion.

It's now, It's after.

It's a nightmare, an endless nightmare.

AUDERE TRIBOLACIO

December, 26 MMXII

 from Unfinished story.

"Departed, chocked to death."

Ancients tell that flowers hide thousand secrets, many ways of speaking.
On a not so dark twilight she came again to the cemetery. This time that front of souls was in tribulation: a new arrival shattered their rest.
A faint and sensitive maiden came there, waiting for the Great Substance, so that she could reach the abyssal trifle.
This shining beautiful creature laid motionless, crystallized in the fog.
But as days pass by nobody appeared to pick her up.
Soon her rose-coloured fairness changed in a vague and pallid figure of what she was.
At the time, the Sensitivity showed up.

She was the black-dressed lady, forced to stroll forever in that lawn of death.
She carried a pure white flower. This flower was a little donation from the not-being for the endless beauty.
From that time the maiden lingers there as the given flourishing flower.

But she still waits, in this dream.

This is a story of a gaunt maiden so pallid and fragile that she couldn't go out.
The only way to connect herself with our world was a tiny oval window that overlooked upon a little wood.
This poor lady often sat in front of this glimmer of life and she described what she saw through this window on a small shred of paper .

But day by day her sorrow grew so that she was not be able to define the beauty of that sight anymore.
Her words became even more harsh, little pieces of her heart turned in ink and all her affliction and sadness won the day.
Everything which her body expressed was nothing more than the mirror of her grief.

And so her agony started, on a cold winter morning.

Wide wounds made their own way on her little fleeble pinched body; soon black and blue marks swallowed her face.
Tiny cuts appeared under her little hands.
Her wrinkled lips turned in a sick blue.
Her blood stopped flowing through the green veins of her narrow wrists.
Her gaze, gloomy and vitreous, kept on staring that wood full of vitality.
That flowered-dressed creature had the death on her heart.