no touch of
daylight can completely erase
the traces
of the hands we abandon our heads into
when
present tense dissolves to mute denial
and all
that’s left is past and uncertainty.
none of us
will speak of what happens
in loud corners
in the midnight of mind,
when
strangers with features like ours
direct the
chalk on the blackened board
and the
unfamiliar starts dripping from our warmest place
with the
weight of a saddened identity.
as if
confined to a recurrent accident of a play,
we're nothing
but puppets in the eye of time,
puppets to the
voices that sneak in our ears at night
puppets to
the untiring daggers that hunt our blood
to set in
motion the tides of memory gongs.
it’s the
law of weaknesses, that we will always meet at the round table,
rehearsing
fears and longings and all those vagrant pledges
love speaks
of from the dead.
before our
eyes, a dear world burned to a matrix of unreality
and all
that happened after the apocalypse
was not more than a quest for whatever might have been.
