I guess his mind is a maze
spun by silk and thin thread,
unlike mine.

His concerns and thoughts diminish,
they bend and stretch,
but they never separate.

His desires and apologies,
stuck in the throat;
wet words burn.

And his eyes bleed
with love
wanderers feel.

He was lost in the maze
of his creations;
the triumph of humanity
and self-destructive hearts.

He repeats his wish,
never to be separated from me,
but the desire is simply a doorknob
that looks like home,
not the door itself.

You can hear the ironing
of someone who isn’t himself,
devaluation, a mockery of skepticism,
acidic laughter through teeth,
he laughs at himself,
laughs at an unwritten chapter,
mocks his giving up,
but giving up
taunts him back.

He shares humor at his own expense,
invalid skepticism
of a frigid indigo child inside him,
reducing him to something simply subjective, to illusion.

While I’m (not) withdrawing from the serious discussion,
and I’m standing side by side with any challenge,
in my hole of the holy ground,
he doesn’t cease to exist,
instead, he stands before me,
trying to move me.

But I’m driven by the melody
with tones slower than his static.
I know on which string my conscience clings
and I can’t let anyone cut it.

He took the measure of high-stature people
without serious consideration.
Is it going to look good on him?
Because he lost the course of thoughtfulness in the maze
of unsynchronized tragedies.
He’s desperate to be more significant,
therefore denying his self-worth.

Lead soldier,
sure that the shield would protect him,
from poison, from surrender,
from self-knowledge, from agony,
too exhausted in the trade
between love and habit.

To finally understand;
one must lose all support
in the sensory and imagined world
building on their own,
to rely on themselves.

Both love and habit
are inseparably hesitant and variable,
but the core of man remains the same,
either he allows himself to get lost in the maze or not.

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