if you look inside the hours

as if rummaging through deep drawers

you’ll find broken pieces of the past

or even letters from the future -

yours, somebody else’s;

“put your hands in your pockets,” says the mirror

“you’ll find they’re full of stars.”

sweetest path

this is how his voyage ended:

there was rage in his heart, clawing to be let out.

the fall from grace was a warning

to us all: dreamers, murderers, saints.

we are acquainted with the path that guides us

toward the inevitable

yet we wonder who opened it for us?

who was the first whose steps

touched its pristine snow?

he barely remembers those days or

how its trecherous whiteness melt in his mouth;

it tasted like sugar and honey,

as lies always do.

the hero’s journey

three sisters veiled in white:

the spinner, the measurer, the cutter
and i, my back turned to them - a blind eye,
trying to locate that place where fate enters life -
like an arrow piercing the soft flesh of time;
this is the beginning of all things:

fate and necessity - inseparable cohesion; 

there is also the voyage
towards the loftier shores: perfection, order -
maybe just an imagined quest of discovery and knowledge
or a sign of hubris - the noble heroic striving
to defy a dark god who prefers us meek
and frightened of the unavoidable tragic end.

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