Hung of gold

A face which suffers, which twists. Drops of rain which stream on a body in crumbs, in gold pieces. Fall the light making up the pain in a treasure. Closed eyes hiding hatred burning in inside. A contracted hand letting pass fleeing sand. Corroding the belly, putrefying the internal organs, leaving a ground of misery without conquistador. A desert where the oases dry at the bottom of a corridor. The scars extend on a face corroded by avarice. Feelings, an extinct joy falling asleep in an installation manufactured. Hardly laid out to charm. Just made up to embellish. A symbol carved in an insane position. Course the idea to imagine a body leaned before drowning. Or to fall into arms laid out to protect it. Upside down, with the back, seen of face or of through. There remains this world with the interfaces leaving this bitter taste. Not to see behind. The wire of time retaining in a riding way. Hung of gold to the face which suffers, which twists.