duminică, 29 aprilie 2012

The 86th floor

I sometimes feel the Universe amounts to
my own persona.
I am the sky.The blackest of birds.
The old chair I read upon.
The tales of heart and blood that flow
as if they were rivers of charcoal ink.
The beaming sun.The waves of silence.
The anxiety which sends men
into oblivion.The careless ant.
The fish that swim from veins to dreams.
The unturned page of yesterday's wish.
The shadow cast upon  a broken leaf.
The maggot which cripples my stomach
in times of pain and sorrow.
The hat that reminds me of the word "cancer".
The smell of wet earth on a scorching
day.The repetitive projection that stands
between reality and myth.
The glass of water which turned to dust.
The gate composed of emerald and iron.
The sad look of misunderstood adolescents.
The prayer that tickled God's ear.
The perfume that never comes off
a dress.
The child which still believes.
The filthy liquid of a bathtub.
The light bulb which never leaves the ceiling.
The whole wide world.
I sometimes feel I could expand
into a new song.

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