Poetry

Split up before and after our impulses

In desperation, we lie,
we deceive sensibilities,
we’re losing fairly,
bluffing only with the existence
in the darkness that surrounds us,
as if it swallows us with the eyes with a scalpel
which hangs on the lower eyelids.

The space between us could be
one room,
one continent,
which yawns,
split up before and after our impulses
to fill the straits
with the glass mosaic,
where infinity would be
dissolved,
and nothing below us or above us exist,
apart from the feeling of falling,
without end,
in a void without stars
that would illuminate the spider web
in which you and I hold on for a sigh or two.

It’s a bond between you and me
which gives blind time the color and vision,
and the creative killing of us,
where they are
lovers among strangers,
enemies among friends,
two starving spiders
because they don’t want to swallow one another.

You are my land,
and I left the shoe print
on a timeless map
which experienced cataclysm
because we got together.
I’m your water,
failing to extinguish the consequences.
Be my scalpel,
for I am the darkness that breathes
behind your neck to catch you.
Cut my eyelids,
for I don’t want to watch you wasting
while others step on your surface,
and I’m below.
I’m inside you, you’re going to kill me.

When ships stay anchored a day longer
on the shadowed shore,
you rub the wound and wash it from memory
in saltwater.
You look like a flag,
which was torn apart in the war,
so holding it over your head,
reminds you too much of that,
and we’re running
between rainstorms
towards dry land,
only to slip in the dirty sand again,
aware that we’re running away from nothing,
it’s not gone
until we turn our heads and remember
days when things were simpler.

I hate the distance.
Love is offering in some places easily
and people are often fooled into thinking
that a false life is a right thing to do,
they become naive and greedy,
like an early vine without a harvest,
shocked when nurtured trees
turn into disgust.
Disappointed with themselves,
calcification of time
as if they are clogging dreams
with hellish regularity.

It’s said that
youth is wasting on the young.
I didn’t see you that way,
young and pure.
When I found you fallen on the ground,
you, made of earth,
your heart was under the river.
I found it beating for me,
instead for you,
and it drank your youth.

I soon noticed the difference
between gullibility and faith,
following the sharpness with the tips of my fingers,
the sharpness of two parts of one stone
that have turned to blood,
they colored the water with a purpose.

If I were to continue barefoot walking
on the path of screams and blades,
the Fata Morgana that formed
on a tired road
would have your voice,
your silhouette.

Full confidence in that
gives me enough weight to tread
with one foot in front of the other,
until you find me somehow,
again,
until the cataclysm ruins us
on a map made by us.
But, even the ash will not cover our tracks.

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