a dirty possessor in the sink…

a broken heart in that room…

a caress that is born of a tear

and a little resentment…

a miracle that was known…

like flowing of the love…

a rose that perishes

under its warm heart…

they are the arc and the arrow…

of its fear and its fear…

so full of life

like the own pain

and the flower is not watered…

leaving a butter open…

without bread, with pain…

like the doors of its heart…

no longer it has the bread…

and it must hurt to him…

that this it is filed single in a platform…

that he was full yesterday… and today this closed…

by an accident that I kill it…

by always a butter…

by upon the flower…

for that sweet