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sâmbătă, 28 septembrie 2013

ouija

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.