Chaflán

I quit writing.

Non moral litany:

that spiritual pain,

became physic.

When it strived,

forced itself,

into giddy

fall,

within

the yellow dull eyes

of a dead

pidgeon.

Cold souls

ridden

by fresh and

almighty own prisons.

High as

our walls are,

deep so,

as quenched

deaf blast.

I put random

stuff in

my loan

washing machine.

Even then... Must wait

to see,

what the end

determines.

Must wait

to feel,

what feeling nothing

means.