Regeneration of self

I’m bending my ear, with my fingers
I enclose its parabolic lobe.
Twitching comes with unusual pain,
like a memory.

I’m trying to listen
to human’s questions,
can he consume
as he regenerates
into transience.

The skin separates from the surface,
and the peeling of ourselves
isn’t as complicated as it seems.
We all do it,
we drag time
with an exhalation, pretending to have
another ace hid in our sleeve,
to keep it, to modify it.
Scraping our absorption,
an eardrum that vibrates
at the essence of one’s memories.
But, they are always ours in the end.

We’re building ourselves in them,
over and over again, through
the sound of mowing the grass
on the ground; red color
in the moisty crust of the essence
which makes us.
We glue the skin to inherit it again.
After all, we are
where we divide ourselves,
where we start
while no one’s watching.

Regeneration of self
isn’t to overcome our loss,
on the contrary, to oppose it.

The eye absorbs
bits of light, fragments,
distilled white dreams at noon,
which glow feverishly despite the retina.

The tips of my fingers are making a broad red bow
around the hologram, where I imagine
humanity as it folds
like a plasticine screen,
on which we played
black and white films in the head.

The bow is cutting through, again
by memory, like a cascading throat.
I’m making a castle, still under construction.
Castle of dried blood,
from every fall on my knees,
when I tried to
touch the meaning of the human core,
like I was asking myself
pointless and rational
questions about rebirth
as someone different,
as someone who doesn’t exist,
isn’t there, but still breathing.

I put the castle on the window.
It’s not that big, but it’s worth it.

What is that light within the margins,
that runs through the glass
windows and enters my castle?
Bound, seized,
uncontrolled center,
swirling wildly in one breath.

The pupils move like a tunnel
suffocating in its darkness,
penetrating skin folds;
regeneration from scratch,
demarcating the source of all life,
illuminating the possibility
of the alteration of the alter ego,
consuming all versions
of myself and letting the self-awareness
to reach its peak.

And the light is much more compelling
when introspection is clearer.
The window is now orange.
It gives a contrast to the red inside me.
Heat as a consequence,
or a random feeling
to manipulate me?

I was looking at the walls
of the castle stagnating on my window.
And they exploded.

I guess, light doesn’t seem to be the only thing
which consumes itself.

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