I may not be a ghost or a saint
to know the place you keep within is by the trees striking midnight at the most.
Trying to intertwine my fingers with your pallid hands comes against the law of your vicious past.
Your complexion broken in accumulated clots of despair in which you've hidden dearly
But your veins are intact and lungs in place, it is far too early to misplace the walls you have built.
The hollowness in between your guilt and creation
does not house what's left of your deceptions.

I may not be a ghost or a saint
to know the place you keep within
is at the palm of my trembling hands for me to break

Chandeliers and trimmed trees bring
tears like an ever flowing stream.
Igniting the path to a tragic past
where the moon ceases to beam.
Delicately carving the lines on the
hands that once fed a deal of pleasure
that is of no longer use to me, thank you, my treasure.
Tiptoed to a monastery, with a familiar face
that exceeded my momentum
whom withheld a coin on a string from his septum.
"Buongiorno, buongiorno! From warm descendants!"
treated me with a surplus of respect.
Time will speak, and time has said,
the archangels have failed to resurrect.
Funerals for tales of a tragic past in full cortège, my forever white gold,
Believing time will remain my loyal friend
as long as my foe is the old

Terminó la pasion
Sin desvelar, sin adios
Mis ultimos pedazos de consiencia
en la nieve

"Sin Dios, no hay amor"
Pero estoy enamorada
con los estudios de Ciencia
y el cuerpo humano
que no tengo porque llorar lagrimas de arena
y suplicar por agua.

Grasping eternity by the neck in tremor
causing my insides to rot.
Too cold to replace my teeth
afraid to wrap my legs in sweets.
Caffeine induced dreams to replenish my cells
with gold or brass,
eyes wide open but my inmate's asleep

Counting the stars one by one in Venice
Passing through the waterways in a gondola;
Thinking it would've been best
to be accompanied

Tightly closed inside a wooden box of my choice
sleeps a woman's desire