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Way

Walking becomes march;
chaste, silent for the little streets virgin
noise and chest of a distant echo.

The cam turns slipping slowly but with determination
murderer
discovering unexpected entries still awake
filter through the walls gossips
The walk gets going;
leave to find another emotion,
carved into the sand of a windy beach or
attacked the brambles of a poisonous plant.
Walking becomes, finally, lose,
with the thoughts of a night that never again will reach you,
with all the sensations in the head jostle,
the strength to say goodbye.