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.

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