I regret
looking at the sky
with bare eyes
leading a choir
after a failed heist
tailing the stairwell
that goes to nowhere
throwing the sand
into the vast thin air
plucking the pear
from the dying trees
closing the doors
from a pack of wolves
storming out without
leaving a single trace
rocking the balans chair
to lock the innerspace
watering the rotten
and yellowish plants
yelling at all of
the bare shadows
watching the paint
goes dry and shy
aching at the sight
of tender butterfly
wearing the tremors
out of the dying luck
punching the weight
by a hard-boiled spate
quelling the thoughts
of the spinning bolt
flushing rapidly
the medals and stature
tumbling over the concern
amid the immense fear
visiting the old memoria
out of angsty melancholy
drawing out the crowd
out of fiery intimacy
dragging the woven sack
to the stuffy warehouse
questioning the pride
of a bleak posthumous
ripping the joy through
the thorny interrogation
piling the myth over
the existential desperation
pinning everything,
everything on a single thing.

There is a wall,
in every telling truths.

I ignored the final call
to the promise land,
and I shall be celebrated.