Golden rain 

creeps my eyes

dust from hell

I inhale.

Fallen disguise

of tomorrow's lies

get on my path

as I recover my old self

as I get closer to living

as I begin to die.

I wanted more

I have it all

and dissappear

as light comes near.

The gods are dead

the blames are set

no one's ever to say

how, or why, or when or where.

The gods have died

and freed the intelect

to the abbys of man

and the endless dark.

so, this is just some chain of thoughts...

How is it that in sorrow all the people, old people, middle aged, tough men and women, behave like children? Is it because growing up is imposed? An imposed fallacy, and when at our weakest we cannot bare the lie anymore; and we let go of our conciouseness, and we become like children.
Is this the real freedom that we believe to have when we are aware, but presents itself only in the most degrading grief?

I have noticed this kind of behaviour also when people are close to dieing. Pride vanishes. Utter shame overcomes, and overwhelms, and thus... freedom of the mind.

Mis pies en el agua blanca

de pensamiento y afines

destino de mi boca manca

de mis palabras, confines.

Atados entre la roca

del río que muere quieto

cosen los labios, la boca

y el cuerpo no es más que un boceto