Morning in my head
by Luis Ullán
Coloured paper sheets cover my bed in white,
as involuntary drugged words walk far away,
distant from my old, shattered reflection,
begging for this belated support
shown in my wrinkled complexion.
There is no need to scream at the cold universe,
deep down this blackened resort;
it´s just morning in my head,
creating your distorted role.
It´s just the ending night for the beast and the madman
tearing the chain tracks you´re trapped at
wrapping the jackal of an old, dirty past;
tracing a new encouraging path
with burning stones in my hands.