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.