As tart as green apples
That is the taste you left on my mouth.
I remember the butterflies that flied out from your pen
And the happy hunt that I used to make of them.
Now, there are only worms with no colors nor wings.
You made me chase my dreams
Those that you hurt with your sharp darts.
There are not enough walls to build between we both,
There are not enough goodbyes to tear us apart,
For your words sound like a rotten symphony
That my ears can not stand any longer.
It took me some time but I finally realized
That you are the sorcerer of the empty poems,
The prince of the purple prose,
The golden king of the reign of tart.


Alejandra Meza Fourzán ©