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The Crimson in my Veins


Whistling past the morning dew of my dreams,

The winds of wakefulness dry the midnight tears.

The horizon appears naked and free from sorrow,

Yet unrevealing of how she truly feels.

Time reemerges from its cocoon,

Dusting its wings in anticipation

Of the days aimless flight.

The breath thickens,

Cutting through the flesh of the night’s bitter fog.

The sun drips through scattered leaves,

Burning the sand from sleepy eyes.


It’s time to rise and reenter

That lonely womb again,

Where nothing new is ever born

Yet novelty bleeds like cracks in statues

Expecting but the cold indifference

Of the same few elements.


The sun wears many faces, though,

And because her masks are so varied,

Her uncertainty so blinding,

Our hearts are receptive to new impulses,

To carrying new blood.


Enter into me sun, wind and rain,

Fire of my wakefulness,

And become the crimson in my veins

Which never stops living.

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