Hanging from the clouds (Poetry)

Rhetoric of an executioner without ropes, embraces tattooed on the clouds. Figuratives. Your voice hangs from the clouds to strike me; it hangs from my wings, in the epiphany of silence. Solitude is a bird that hangs on your skin. The smile, the hug, the cup it lifts; a prediction of image, a prophecy in honey. A society not secret and cursed when it sings. The oracle doesn't lie: it dies without a cord, with the sun, with the light, and the farewell in its throat. No one silently watches over the guilt, the mead that evaporates the cloud today, that mutilates your blanket. It's the noise, the voice, swimming without its handkerchief who awaits death and your thornless face, a goodbye, an aimless arrow amidst consolation. Solitude is a bird, another arrow in your corners, habit or happiness, the skin I fly over. Solitude is my skin, the solitude you spread. My eyes crystallize the path where I am shipwrecked. The seas do not exist, the rivers do not exist, the sky does not exist, the clouds where I hung poems for you, do not exist. The poems, where I hung clouds for you, break my footprints on your shadow.