English Version
gothique et romantique

The dead tears of your body

Publié le 3 Mai 2014

romantisch, gothique, romantique, gotisch, rêve, fantastique, fantastisch, sombre, dunkel, traum, romántico, gótico, soñado, oscuro, fantástico, romantico, gotico, sognato, scuro, fantastico, porte, eau, pierres, , eau, see, mer, cimetière, croix, poème d’amour, lettre d’amour, roman gothique, poème romantique, lettre romantique, poème gothique, gothique et romantique, larme, église gothique, mélancolique, mélancolie, nuit, night, dark, sombre, memories, souvenirs, melancoly

Eyes lost without being able to hide this face which could not be considering. Post yourself your vis-a-vis double faces with the black traces like a devastation. Run in you the hatred of a wild beast which is maintained to appear wise. To be maintained, be held, without acting, reacting, not to suffer. With crying about it, howling about it in the limbs of martyrdom. That you did not want. Who puts to you with naked. The day at night in the center of the place, on the pilori. Solidified in an installation all in reserve. Ooze on your skin water of rainy days. Who one day will cause your moult. Making up of young tone waxy face. Too much blackened to appear old about it. I dare to believe that dance in you of the happy days. That your life is frozen only outside. What burns in your body a fire able to protect you from death. I like to think that you live behind this shield. Listening to beat knocking time as this heart of which you are private. I want to imagine that you could speak. Of what you hear, of all these words released with your feet. Taking your ice-cold installation for a rigid absence. Of that which one does not return. Immortal, obliging you to remain there. Eyes lost without being able to hide this face which could not be considering. Post yourself your vis-a-vis double faces with the black traces like a devastation. You awake the night in stroke. Emerging from the nightmare, arms tended towards the sky. So that he comes you to the rescue, that he hears your call. Vain because there is never the least spark. Bringing the hope to you to take off your nightshirt of despair. Soldier of misfortune, posed in the middle of the city to celebrate its good fortune. Placed there to remain there. He returns to you to make good figure, the eyes lost without being able to hide this face which could not be considering. Post yourself your vis-a-vis double faces with the black traces like a devastation. The dead tears of your body leaving you in an ultimate insult evaporate.

le sang de la nuit, la naissance de l'ange, decouvrez le dernier roman de steffan urell

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