An(a)Chronic

The dawn falls.

The dusk raises over an object that catches a glimpse of the calm sea’s  inclemencies.

Of how tongues are burned and shadows come along inside the dogs’ ears.

The man takes eight steps forward while his eyes look inside his brain showing themselves blank and dead.

Each one of the fingernails broke in contact with the steel of the caresses received from the hammer of the witches.

Violation of a blindman on to the vision of realities beyond comprehension, that's how tar is spilled from the lungs of the voice who seems to know everything.

And the man is dumb, and his ears cry with every step of his knees.

Deny per system the systematically needed for the perpetuation of the intellectual evolution.

And the man never sleeps alone, for he never has to sleep between the sheets of the cold voice from the sepulcher.

As round is the Earth from the dawn of creation, life is torn from the mother of the prodigal son.

Shakespeare as the paradigm of the stupidity and the arrogance of the hand from the being created by his own unique memory.

And the man becomes the blind confidence of being eaten by spiders, of being embraced by the stars unknown to his eyes, those to he won’t never give credit if it’s not burning his dead eyes with them.

Out of an era, outside of its era, the object spits words.

Sculpts hate on the trees that give way to other realms, where the dead woman becomes the widow and the son is stabbed.

And so the dawn falls on the dusk of the chaos of the denial and the acceptance of the everything and the nothing.

And as the man walks down a rope made from his veins, hence the object takes the fire to burn the rain.

The blood of the ghosts is the blood to come alive.

Oopart.

Mirrors to the animals, meat for the plants.

Walk among the invertebrates with life at your feet while reciting words that are meaningless to you.

Falls the veil behind which hides the discipline of the blunt blades.

That’s how the man accepts the fate of his eyes, while his wrists bleed.

Sons of nothing. Fathers of incorruptible lies.

The object brings the sound of revenge amongst mild whispers of the tides created by the moon hidden behind the mountain.

Anachronistic path. Excessive future. Sons of nothing.