The fever of the terrible tomorrow

He had the terrible expectations of the future,
but Russian roulette pulsating inside your heart
and whirling a thousand flamingos in the head
made him feel frustrated.

It seemed that all the sentinels of hell
they had embraced their sheets
and an army of mutant mosquitoes irritated his ears.

It was as if the snow of existence struggled against a summer of other people's lives,
and his fever was so unbearable that his bed would be the mantra of life.
He could not move! It could not be stagnant.

A statue of feelings in a cauldron of madmen,
and he, terrified, pretended to take one step at a time,
when he suffers the constancy of his being
he begged for everything to be just choice.

Between the blue and the shadows,
between the pillow and the street,
between melancholia and panic,
between sleepwalking and reality.