Footprints,
Hands that yet seem to touch
The glass, the sky,
The air I crave so much.
Tables of hope
Deride me still,
I lie ‘n the heart of a saint
Hanged for theft ‘gainst his will.
Still gazing at the stool
I both hate and adore,
I feel its pull
And hands implore.
Fingers seize me,
Pierce right through,
Hung by an angel’s wrists,
I soar anew.
I steal one flight
Just to fall again
Where they lack the decency
To end my pain.

Marco Delrio

Footprints

SOCIAL & CONTACTS

Mail: delriomarco.md@gmail.com