Can I call myself Absurd?


If convictions framed histories

How awkward would have the world looked like

Bulging here and there like ginger hunchbacks

 
How fast the pathway vanishes in to the dark wood

Leaving no trail of the distances covered.

 
Each call you make to your home

From hill tops of brown and white

Carry the stillness of the yet to be.

 
Who said life is not a bed of roses?

Roses are vineyards

And vineyards blackouts.

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