the message was important but the dawn devoured it

with its livid mouth.

the torn hem of the dream congealed, blood-red, on the pillow.

“le soleil est perdu!” chimes the clock.

wake up! wake up!

deep in the heart of the day, 

deep in your heart, 

the truth is more terrifying than the story.

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.”

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.