quarta-feira, 27 de setembro de 2017

Solitude





the flesh covers the bone 
and they put a mind 
in there and 
sometimes a soul, 
and the women break 
vases against the walls 
and the men drink too 
much 
and nobody finds the 
one 
but keep 
looking 
crawling in and out 
of beds. 
flesh covers 
the bone and the 
flesh searches 
for more than 
flesh. 

there's no chance 
at all: 
we are all trapped 
by a singular fate. 

nobody ever finds 
the one. 

the city dumps fill 
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill 

nothing else 
fills. 


Charles Bukowski






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