try
to
tame
the
toll
of
your
fear
for
your
throne
should
not
train
your
tears

blue is the sky
bronze are the bullets
that bury our dreams
burning our blurry glory
bloated with blasphemy
blasting our moral
blaming our brains
bruising our faith

your fragrant scent
brings the fresh fumes
that intoxicate
my whole self
your love is in my blood
your love is in my bones
your love is in my vessels
your love is in the corner of my eye
and in my every corner your love
fumigates  butterflies
                    in my gut
                    in my lungs
                    in my throat
making more room
this possessive love
this persistent love
this aerosol love
fainting
  founding
    fevers
      flamboyantly

       I
          fall

put yourself in time out
see if evil enters the room

no space for light
no ear for sound
the rusty doorknob
is the metallic song
                          for Hemingway
             the Sea and the Old
ask not for whom the bells toll
for we evacuated all the islands
the metallic song
sings for thee

I install myself
into your city
that template
           where I hold
      my book
I see you the words
                               go blurry
                           every guy
                        holding
                    a book
                ever
          o
Lord someone
    save me

lift your finger
     to reach the flames
       that will fall someday
         while the glow-worms
            merge with the stars
            I will melt with my heat
           the rain you'll see tonight
          will be me melting the sky
        so you can sweet-dream
      on marshmallow-covered
    streets everytime I see you
  under the rain I close my
umbrella

The intensive care unit of a library
is straight down the hallway. The
hallway is connected to the Limited
Editions cabinet. The cabinet covers
the window partially. The Limited
Editions section is also referred as
the Limited Light cabinet.

What a writer is doing in the intensive care unit:

Squeezing ink out of a culture-tube.
Containing the pulse of a page.
Salvaging the last drops of ink.

Metaphor to explain that the pen of the writer
is running out of ink:

He needs to run out to save the blood of another
story.

Rhetoric to explain something as simple as the redundant fact that the writer is writing in a library:

Refilling the page with the cadence of life
and all the lives he’ll live through this chapter

Antithesis and paradoxes to enrich the narrative in
whose the writer runs out of ink (still):

Reflecting on the beauty of the discomfort.
To live you must accept to come to an end.

The following is just a series of allegorical ways in which
a lady justifies what by now has become voyeurism:

I agonize reading the line that ties your eyes together
in perfect symmetry

Your eyes are parallel to
the pages you are holding.

pulled\apart\and\back\together\get it

I install myself
into your city
that template
where I hold
my book
I see you
the words
go blurry

Every guy
holding a book
ever
o
Lord
someone
save me