Who am I is not important, I am yourself may I say, or maybe I am a face that shall be remember when time will get in the right place. I am the words that seem to follow senseless down those empty streets, I am the sign that shouts and shows the emptiness after those rusted walls. Lined thoughts cripple out of mind stab me like an unworthy beast, cast a spell and burn those shivers, as I drown the time into the icy rivers. Frozen inside that second if bliss, cast the soul of the abyss singing lonesome lullabies, wishing me farewell and goodbyes.

What am I might seem peculiar as it sounds  ripped off from a dream; or a nightmare if the cat keeps her darkness stray of her tangling fur. I am the letter that builds up the power of a word, dust remaining under the structure of a sentence committed under the influence of a sick twisted thing, called moral sense.

Locked inside those molecules , strangled from an upper curse,  lift me for my skinless chapter, dodge me from my inner factor of abusive deflection. I am only the shadow of a stained paper written with the pencil called “my past”.