Raffael PonceValencia

I walk through the domain of the ravenous wolf.
Constantly looking over my shoulders.
Treading like feathers in fire.
Touching nothing around me.
...

Searching the banks of recollection,
I find that I have nothing of value.
Ideas plague biblically and roam reigning,
but no true remembrance of happiness.
...

In his hands sometimes lays the snow.
Often times he lets the flakes breathe upon the receiving warmth of his knuckles.
They lay there for a second or two,
They stare up into his eyes, and with a thankful silent nod; they melt away.
...

Bile.
Slipping.
Toxic spewage racing slowly down my throat thick like honey.
Boiling in pools of sandy glass where eyes should be.
...

Trace me.
That is all that is necessary.
You know everything to fill it in.
Every inkling of my being.
...

Por tus ojos he visto la fuente de vida,
Y siempre beberé de ese mar,
Hasta que no queda tan siquiera una gota.
...

Weary eyes and heavy looks.
Breath taken aback and told he's aging.
Vicarious youth, envying the fresh and spritely.
Neck turned by the wandering mind of the vagabond owner.
...

Ground Level.
Model #A1181
Rated 16.5 Vdc Max., by a John Fischel.
...

There was a family of ants.
Marching single file to the beat of the creamy rock.
...

A wash of hopelessness and solemnity rains over him, a fresh-fallen layer of sickly darkened snow.
Lashes of fabric, heavy with disappointment pull towards feet, of which have been morphed together, bound by splitting, earth-shattering longing.
.
...

Paso por paso, he caminado entre las olas de el tiempo.
Paso por paso, la sombra angélica me guía hacia las estrellas.
...

Submersed in a sleet of white snow severed by streaks of black shadows,
I rest my head in darkness.
...