Salty forehead,
milky crystals,
splashing waves,
away-ing shores
worn-out soles,
boiling sand,
shiny foams,
citric sunlights,
lustful dunes,
lonesome, me.

Labyrinth

Trois Gymnopédies sound at slow pace,
from behind the high brick walls surrounding a labyrinth.
There's no time, no clocks, befores, or afters;
just the rhythm of 3/4.

No naked children around, either.
No distractions, no taboos.
There aren't passions, second thoughts,
no repenting.

There's no clouds in the intense blue above.
There's no wind, there's no night, there's no north.
The sun stays still at 12 o'clock day, night, winter...
Forever hanging like a still burning pendulum.

The sun's golden celsius falls like a torture,
blurring the air into thick smegma
that melts the orange bricks, spammed against each other,
all day long boiled to boredom.

Several scattered weeds, dried out and long dead,
only company to the stone hallways
that lead nowhere —so empty there's not even
a shadow.

Now, wait a minute, that music...
Trois Gymnopédies? who's playing?
Is it that there's somebody trapped in there?
Is it that there's somebody trapped outside?