Sterile Start. Poem by Sara Iglesias

As a smooth pen, that rolls over a blank draft,
Crafting a frenzy's start,
Or the knife offered to persecuted spirits,
in the ancestral lament for a eucharistic tomb
on the roots of the oak's tree side,
It is a sign that you could save me,
It's the feeling you enact.

The redness of knuckles,
and veins popping at force,
are walls to bear prickling hours,
the memorial where the blue flame stands,
wouldn't be an affront to my honour,
since honour assented to burn
in the altar's apse.

A frightened tenant occupies,
a domain where cents get the treatment of hundreds,
He has to make cryptic signals to confound,
Fighting a plague that undermines dusty states.

Torrential legions may approach,
Sophisticated deceits for oneself,
Hiding the crumbling corner,
where birds left their nest.
-Conceal the dissected shells
of the pearl necklace,
No pearl can be birthed,
from a sterile start
that which examines augury,
behind the doors of the alchemist's enclosure.