the narrow path we follow - who opened it for us?
I can see the threads between me and you and everybody else
like a colourful embroidery that grows and spreads;
I can see the traces I left in other people’s minds
when our dreams intersected for the blink of an eye;
I can see their hearts in mine - blazing, red, alive -
a fleeting impression of oneness,
of never being alone in life or death;
I can see myself plummeting into the vast darkness:
it is not a fall;
it’s an inverted flight to the stars.
diminished, defeated, unknown to the gods,
fallen at the feet of those I once loved;
here I am: a warm raindrop hanging from a spiderweb,
drinking the blood of the sunset;
come with me, follow the dark staircase up to the broken sky
of yet another sleepless night; I’ve got no stories to tell
but I’ve got illusions and false hope -
they are the honey of the poor and the cursed;
there’s also a sweeter poison you can pour in your cup:
the guilt and self-hatred of those who were betrayed,
wounded and left for dead.
stay still, wait no more, be silent!
watch the hours dance their menuet;
do not stir in your cocoon of lostness:
every flapping of the wings is a laceration
of the night’s smooth body.
there’s always a latent disintegration of everything that seems solid in the world,
there’s a hidden sickness in every core of purpose and goodness
infecting what we know and see and believe;
the very essence of whatever dream sustains us
is gradually falling apart - imperceptible landslide until the final quickening and collapse;
out there, beyond our knowledge, someone or something weaves dark shrouds
and one day, unexpectedly,
beauty is wrapped up in their folds like a dead child.
we need to build something massive to shelter us from ourselves
from what we know deep inside, from what we are,
from the tattered nightmares that still hang on our eyelashes
every silent morning, every new loop of struggle and hope -
in these great walls lies our only strength and chance of survival.
what was left after our worlds collided
in the corridor between two opposing mirrors?
all the things we wanted to say to each other
like magic spells of love and new beginnings - where are they now?
the longing, the lust, the loss - do they still hover,
ghostlike, in the empty space?
I still believe it was real;
the stage we imagined, the passion we conjured,
the scenes we rehearsed over and over
in the limelight of that madness,
before the absence fell with a thud
like a dusty theatre curtain.