Docile hands

Docile hands

as birds accustomed to

the holocaust of clouds

and destinies

searching in those pockets so full

of deceptions and illegible small notes: desperate,

compulsive calligraphies,

of inconsequential transgressions;

of irrelevant nap time sins – with its vile

and stupidly incompetent innocence,

of pieces of everything useless that the day treasures: elements

to intervene inefficiently on memory and dreams.

Hands as light as certain promises,

just seeking shelter

where there’s hardly a worthless coin,

a recurring lint,

an obsolete faith.

© Marcelo Wio

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