An innocent statue sits in front of me, by myself chosen and arranged.
If it doesn’t tell a tale of sorrow it tells a tale of probable failure, one of many
Even if that fate awaits not for my anecdotes all.
The statue is not of a goddess -not that one at least, for there are many
Yet their tales belong not within these virtual strokes-
And no answer comes, either from within or from a feathered fiend posed above.
Feats of such a span I should not pretend
To write like this or the quest of the figure standing still, still so close.
This is not a poem of a passed path and a past phantasm with their phantom pain.
Those exist, like those silhouttes all others but their sins we keep away.
This is what never was and is not and likely happen won’t.
There is stupidity inside this very hope, that even if it shouldn’t
That it won’t be is not yet -I think- written on a stone.
Rather around here they still float
-stubbornly refusing to die as they should-
the chances and hopes and flairs that it could, even if fleeting, even if once
surrounding me as these electric, mechanical, imperfect letter strokes.
This heart of mine keeps beating and within
even if not the right ammount of hope
Some -for this tale and some for others that time still could bring
With their own silhouettes and their own cadence-
Prevails.
The lament’s presence
stays as well.
As the sun hits it’s peak
The day comes and once more away I walk
Out of here and these shadows I casted myself
Physically I move.
But a part of them travels with me,
to dark tunnels and narrow corridors
and small classrooms,
where the alumni role no longer I play.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario