it was a summer of truth, a season of clarity and the knowing felt like an endless fall. travelling among the dark stars of loss, how can I forget the past? how can I let go of those memories that haunt me - the moments of bad judgment, the control relinquished to others, the accidental debilitation of the survival instinct, the failed new beginnings? sleepless nights spent pondering what to do while guilt sank its fangs into the rain’s siren song and turned it into a scream. my creation has turned against me with icy poison. I was so proud and blind. I trusted the power of words and love. as seen from today, past victories are sugarcoated mistakes. there’s nowhere to go now,  at the end of this broken story about being perfect and having it all. it’s precisely here, at the end of the world, that the hero’s journey will end one day, not with a tragic twist in the script but with a few blank pages: smooth, mirror-like, hungry. 


i am what i see:

the blank page - mirror of an improbable epiphany,

the wintry february days opening before me like a leporello book

written in the language of the winds - i’ve witnessed it all

over and over again in my little life.

a peculiar kind of darkness bleeds into old age;

the entropic inevitability of decay and forgetting

invents its own alphabet: tremulous asymmetric patterns

masquerading as eccentricity - je vous explique tout:

these stories i tell so well,

they may have never truly happened; there were also

some letters from the future, journeys in a haze and

so much waiting for the right moment,

but everything everything aligned 

precisely as the script required.

now words crawl like ants, scattered all around,

carrying crumbs and falsehoods; they’ve made anthills

from those unfinished sentences i penned on a piece of paper.

there’s no place for me in purgatory like in the dream of gerontius;

tonight, the North Star will close its eyes upon me;

and during that eclipse

a trail of black roses will guide my way.

peut être l’oubli

morning’s iridiscent branches spread under the dome of mist; 

frost breaks under my steps as i walk among the tall pine trees in the forest; 

silence tastes like snow on my tongue;

a scream is trapped in my chest - winter’s bird-of-doom

entangled in the hour between sunrise and the end of the world;

why am i following the same trail of mourning, drowning again in guilt and self-pity?

wish i had a home to go to, an embrace waiting for me or a hand to hold mine.

from unfinished thoughts and broken longing, memories fall away like leaves in autumn.

regrets roam, frantic, on the path of new fears.

i’ve got nothing to say to the ghosts hiding in the frozen earth.

i will forget.

i will forget. 

not now. one day.

in oblivion we trust.

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