I checked my conscience,
counted my errors, one by one,
or what’s left of them,
such recklessly corrects by itself.
And what I saw was nothing;
the bones of a poet long decomposed,
ending up lying under a hill
from which I pushed my conscience.
I guess, at a certain point,
it was too heavy to hold.
I took my boots and my shovel,
the one with whom I also buried the part of myself
who once believed he could choose
quality, that he has to throw out the quantity of the equation.
I started digging up my bones,
just enough to upset them.
Surely, a lesser crime than to ignore them.
I checked everything in them,
I sank my nails into rotten fossils, opened them,
and saw that I was nothing;
I was looking for art,
in the form of people, in stranger’s touches,
in trauma, in the statue made of ink and glass,
in the voice of the lost boy inside me
who was screaming in Latin,
the language he didn’t understand,
but he knew it was dead, same as him,
though he continues to live.
The silence hid me with its cape
amidst unstable repulsiveness,
unpredictable as an oncoming volcano
in volume tectonic periods.
Silence saved me, thanks to the boy inside me
who was smart enough to know
to be transformed into a writer
which only pain can make his voice to be let off,
a voice loud enough to throw its beasts to its knees.
I checked my impermanence,
and allowed me to stand up,
to give way to complexity, confusion, and color.
I always saw myself as refined
in gray, but on the other hand,
does gray not symbolize wisdom?
Still, I exist.
I saw wealth in reality
after living on this earth,
the brightness over solidarity, sublimity.
I had a foreshadowing.
When the muses return,
I’ll tell them about what I wrote
while they were gone,
so that my presence
would have a meaning on its own.
Another free fall-
I checked my bones one last time,
and I’m learning the anatomy of my own body.
Something has always possessed me.
I gave myself to something a long time ago,
and every time it let me go, it possessed me even more.
The pain. It was always a pain.