POETRY WITHOUT COAUTHOR

Inside me lives a poem.
I do not know how to write, and by not doing,
It lives without form and exists in a stupidity.
It comes, it invades and it dies without being born.

There are no signs that make you aware,
Always insisting, it does not come out of my pen,
Except from soul, and stays in the dark.
I trace nerve lines and rehearse the poem.

It shines, thunders and fades.
It do not sticks on the meat.
In the soul, it is not read.

It lives latent in me, soon forgets.
In her beautiful eyes it delights.
It simply burns, incinerating.