At the other end of my sorrow
I stand - impoverished with chronic distrust
Staring at a single long-distance flight
With history behind my back
Like a poisoned circle, a cursed wheel
Empathy eavesdropping as it always does
While virtually bathing in my own private thoughts.
Continents are public islands.
All my mental suppositions fermenting
framed in defensive, metal hypotheses-
by bizarre, impersonal priorities
like some cavities owned by their own heaviness.
Desperation hieroglyphics are the easiest
to translate into native dialects...
Urban feelings cannot be looked up
on yellow pages;
Some trees are destined to grow old as obsolete paper,
Some are destined to regret.
When pilgrims winged away from their soap-bubbles
They only missed the courage to wait,
To admit their disinherited failures,
Sounding like playground echoes
or an almost-repented childhood mistake.
You cannot lose what is not yours-they say
Heart readers rely only on irrelevant depths
With a few expressive masks we reinvent carnivals,
Break through the last tarnished thistles
For some downfall grace to cover our chest,
Shiny swings have long replaced rusted cradles,
And encircled their mobility like a levitation wreath
Both experience and intuition have betrayed me
Giving me reasons to forget my youth
and run away from second-chances like an escaped convict.
Being myself feels like gambling,
My sharp decay so brutal, so misused,
Being around you – such a constant wondering
Founded upon occult, hermetic diaries
I am a carrier pigeon dying before reaching
its visible destination,
on a flawless, yet too remote shore.