Vasque Sundowner Made In Italy

Poetry Poetry (Carlos Escobar)





Competition steamboat







I know you will not come heme Yet there
Under the canopy of burned seeds floating
going down, Falling on
surface trembling sigh,
Del thinned gray separates us.

vile bandit steals
From Silicon reflection piece that covers your torso.
That tempts me to cross to reach you
As I look and I die and shine!,
Mocking
Al show pieces of quartz on its ridges.

know I will not go to you
Yet give me the urge to support the unfinished
and pretend that I approached his knife
Imagining the siren song does not lead to the cliffs
That perhaps revel exciting to see my presence in the eddies.
And the wind that lifts the candle ... but I do not, for shame.

I know not what reflects you, what light through
With my image your pond
Or perhaps I have a resounding echo in the underworld of your bad dreams.
And every night I fall asleep, like today, trying to decipher the enigma,
So, I see you and you lean, as if trying to touch the warm silence grace in captive deer
What secret forest nymph.
And I
with curare at the tip
rotting in
attempt at redemption in the second, taste your meat


lust in my hands forward and clots that slip through the gums ... but I know I will not.

One night without headlights have your mouth to my
A shadow, show me your gestures when I try to esfumarte silence
Naufrago, having you in front
And not listening to the waves,
Only the fear that another star from the shore ... although, why you go on?
If you know you see ... you know, you know what I see? ... And since January

approach promised not know only you
And yet there.
and glide for a moment on lead
Until their weight becomes two-dimensional spectra, Orange and intangible

That granite sink to the bottom.

My desires, even after so long spring
And the daffodils are still intact
Hoping some good wind you
O come to me I come to you,
Although you can not go for you,
Although you tied me to this rock because you would not come

why I always wait here which Obsessed Arjona, ridiculous,
Because you know what I look
And if one day you will no longer seems so large and embarrassing fears this pit
Believe me, I will do everything possible to make the crossing
And you get to the haven of my arms.
My faith is in it.

But today,
Selene's calling, calling to his creatures.
you're going, fast, so fast, the charm away, nymphs hide,
hands near the edge and capturing your extra points victory
you separate your boat under his arm
And the wind that I command with a whisper filled with more than congratulations.

(What a strange ending as more in the moonlit night in the aquarium).





Poetry is definitely cheesy and sappy, and if it appears in some cases because they may be using a large vocabulary. It strikes me reading poetry I have to accept, but write me extremely recreational and fun, I say, we all have our side-ridiculous drama and poetry has fueled much of it, in my opinion. But what if a few manage to make poetry an art (and do not include myself among those who did), but still the most know and write just as there will still be the TV notes, leaves the parish, the subtleties in public bathrooms and personal growth books.