Alma Novaes

 

Mirror of mine, mirror of mine

Was it a kind of preparation out of the navel?

He won women through the illusion 

of a humanist and believer that he created 

and the intentions that he concealed. 

Devourer of souls, a desire that fulfilled and satiated, 

judging by his schemes.

But it was a thong. A rooster. 

If someone tried to find it there.

In real life, a man would find a cornered, 

unloved child, a narcissistic spoiler who, 

instead of running to his mother's skirts, 

ran away from her so that she would not 

shake his fantasy, that he possessed 

all the qualities to charm women 

and deceive the crowds, out of sheer vanity.

In fact, it wasn't a rooster. It was a chicken man.

The horniness had him on his tongue 

during the time he cheated and lied. 

He called himself a revolutionary, 

I simplified the artifact to an artless swindler.

Beyond the obvious, it was just an 

infantilized ego waiting for permanent massage.