If day was bound to survival,
Bindings turn to ashes,
Blinded by a burning sunset.

Night is the mother of Poetry,
When words are free to run
Along silent pages that hosts will become.
For the secret treasure of your ink,
The eclipse in pleasure
Of pen and paper
Matching
Seducing
Fire producing
Smoldering tinder fusing

Your core calls,
Your dawn howls
For the freedom
You find in emptiness;
To be filled with your vices.

Come with us,
They say.

Fly with us on the Moon,
Their invite.

Be in us.
Within
Inside
And
Outside
Be us.

Indulge yourself
In the holy sin

Find your true kin
And kindle your soul shall be.

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Michele Battistioli

*DNA Founding Member