The Exit

The sleep was disturbed. 
A book reads me. 
The thinker will not rest in the arms 
of Morpheus. 

There is no road. You will 
walk in the kitchen for the last supper. 

A scream in the throat 
dies. I have no soul. The night 
looms large. I will not surrender 
my pen. 

Unquenchable thirst 
was me. My head in a spin, 
I go beyond the words, 
to find the clapping hands.