puppet birds

you always try to elevate circumstances to a symbolic level,
turn them into metaphors studded with pearls of universal wisdom;
you make the same mistake over and over again:
you gild the all-too-often, you mourn
the tragedy turned grotesque by the breaking news,
you seek meaning in the rant of fools,
you commiserate with the icy despair
of those who cannot love
and pretend they are heartbroken.

sometimes facts are just facts: they are not the truth;
they are the premise from which minds weave reactions and 
map the road to follow in response to what is expected of them
not according to their own nature but to the rules of the many,
to the blueprint of the maze they were born into,

waiting for the puppet birds above your head to come alive,

to spread wings and fly.
you keep saying you would die for truth;
you believe it is essential - a gift 
worthy of your love for those you cherish - family, friends;
you cannot see that your quest for truth, the constant delving
into the black maggot-filled earth of family secrets
casts the beam of madness over your honest face.

you see redemption for those who seek none;
they lie to you; they’ve lied to you before;
it is how they survived your idealism,
it is how they watched your fall without blinking:
they believed you deserved it as punishment
for not being able to fit in - an isolated case,
outlandish, theatrical - the predictable story of a born loser.

chaos reversal

there is a new harmony - heavenly, abstract, immaterial presence,

glimpse of a new order elevating dissonance,

translucent, transparent, weightless bodies,

gravity defying scaffold of light beams in the heart of waiting;

imagine music you can see, colours you can wrap around your trembling fingers,

a fragrant breeze healing all wounds, bringing ghosts to life.

do not oppose the change: be permeable to the point of no resistance,

let this soft wavering feeling flow through you; it is the shimmering river of hope;

you can now look back and see your past with new eyes:

the broken cup was full of light.

twelve hours in winter

10:30 a.m.

it has rained whispers and unrest all morning.

i am almost ready: my luggage packed, my mind set.

i once had a dog i loved so much - she appeared to me in a dream last night:

i was driving on a deserted road, slowly, watching her in the rearview mirror

in disbelief and a kind of wonder that felt like an ice corset;

the dog ran after me but vanished in the corner of my eye before catching up.

i woke up crying and remembering how unworthy of her love i had been.

11:45 a.m.

i take photos from the train window - a blue ribbon blurring tree tops and 

half-alive villages; blinking views like ghost-birds on the memory screen.

a few more hours to the destination.

2:15 p.m.

everything could have been different:

the beginnings were good except for some corners filled with blackness;

they didn’t matter at the time but in those obscure pockets of the days,

away from light and truth, toxic weeds sprouted; 

in time, they grew into a forest where

love didn’t thrive, sacrifice didn’t meet reward.

everything was a lie, i found out later.

4:45 p.m.

the city breathes dust and a stench of madness; 

fruitless trees line the slippery streets of the same old labyrinth;

sinkholes open at crossroads; neon lights tear at the fabric of sunset.

i have never felt more alone and sick.

7:30 p.m.

it’s dinner time; i’ll have the same broth of empty shells.

lies are the bread of the broken, the heartless, the cursed.

they are the moving seas that drown our fragile ships

and the light we carry within.

there is no shore to sail to, no island to take refuge

on planet lostness.

defeat is written in the great ledger;

from the very first time we borrow the promise of happiness;

we sign our sentence at the bottom of a blank page.

10:30 p.m.

as they lied to us

so we shall lie to them

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