Iron Tusk

lines are drawn, your body hits the light before
the day could ever rise. iron tusks are empty. eyes
are closed, the pictures in your mind are false,
you’ll never see the night. iron tusks are swollen
knives and guns, but their wounds are notional.
knives and guns are subsided iron tusks, but their
wounds are rational. no graves by metaphors.
all books by folded hands. all graves by folded
hands. taste the sun, burn your tongue! living
as i wanted to. you said that all is an illusion.
you criticise an uncountable set, there are more
elements than arguments yet. lines will always
intertwine, if dots are crossed twice. five dots,
eight lines build a house indeed, but not mine. it’s
not real. and can’t you see the…