Random (III)

rumble. ramble. run

let the food of the soul never get angry
and turn its face into a horrid wave of the sea.
in our prayers we prayed for nights that hold very long conversations with the gates of dawn,
no one even dared to open
it with a plea to God.
i have known that God is a farmer of carrots
since his veil has nothing to do with the orange color
or the fires that laid in the commotion of the other, 12
strangers who fed from the words of an unsteady flame.
in the Heaven told by my friend whose skin will leave its scales
roaming with the seraphim of left-handed smokers,
there is a pinch of ponche that tastes like the ground,
with spices soaked enough to swell a pot of its sweetness.
everyday is a synonym for a new leaf,
roots tied to loosen up, to get in touch with its essence
a core, a deity, a word, a cord, a bond, a door?
in this emptiness feel
in vastness-heal
there is a reward for those who use a punctuation to,
stay on a line.

Ruddapoet