“That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline, and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel, and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.” ~ Pablo Neruda, Walking Around
* * * * *
There comes a time …
There comes a time, I’m tired of stories-
feckless, empty, of daydreams without
blithe ends, sulfur- colored, collapsing,
supple under lachrymal gliding in a sea of ashes.
I’m in here, trapped and fatigue, inside a bygone maze
and the spice of brutally cold walls stops me pretending
that I believe in amity miracles and love flowers,
a lifetime collected in a crack of agony.
There comes a time, I’m tired of thinking,
my dark heart and my even darker silhouette,
they are just fallen rebels in the lost era of butterflies.
And it would be good if I could learn to fly again,
in the middle of the night, through medieval châteaux
or through roof tops of avant-garde skyscrapers.
But it will be all the same, because
it so happens that I’m tired of wearing a mask
and the mornings burn with moistureless creativity.
© 2013 Broken Sparkles