When Does Whitening Gel Expire?

And just like every book read by the wind,
and wet, like every dawn of spring,
closing his eyes and slipping in the center.
rags and squeezed by unskilled hands
brittle by time, about to tear,
hanging in midair at night lit by a thousand questions
with bare arms and coat over his eyes. And the knife
filed on consciousness, and the patch
discarded on the sideboard.
is the backbone of the thoughts from the mind marched, with the illusion of
stop their infernal dance
danced to the rhythm of their violins salt
while they laugh at me, splashing water,
become so popular that I call them by name. And the words

outputs from the stomach and vomited into the glass of the evening,
reflected in the mirror of my arrogance
and falls in front of my feet,
stop in front of the wall beyond which I would go
to follow myself and rediscover myself.
But I remain here, to turn myself around,
with eyes full of stones and
hands full of ants.
And I find myself talking in the wind
and laughing in the rain, cry to heaven

and smell the dark, the moon
dream beyond the bars, with the clock still standing

and the day will not start.