The Dark Horse climbs up and reaches its place

Arms leak, needing to hold spheres, like a human Ouroboros, biting its tail where the fingers of the left hand meet the right. Dichotomy between the human skin and the overlapping scales of the snake. Androgynous in caressing, in meeting the opposite watching from above how the skull and the neck and the entire body, except for the arms, melt away, turn into the flavorous clouds the Dark Horse recreates itself from.

Shines on recklessly. And the once-human hits his seventh journey, as the metempsychosis closes upon itself, like a self-controlled wooden locker, with deep roots embedded in the Ground, like a red, flashing wound concluding inside itself, covered with thin epithelium, underneath which the volcano will sleep.

The Dark Horse climbs up and reaches its place and the man starts resting under a greater placenta, breathing through the limbs of the horse and the snake that’s now dying in the arms that once transcended into Ouroborous.

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