there is a call to the recollection
of impossible probabilities
so difficult, so difficult
my parchment weeps  
it has led me here
to choose complacent melancholy
in a private odyssey
that won’t leave me or come back
i shall go tomorrow
why?, will someone tell me
where have I been
must go to think it over
it is an invitation to a suicide
left unanswered
in a place where promises
linger in the air like floating sorrows
or perhaps the ****** of stubbed metal
in a medical basin
and yet the words come as they are
unclothed, naked, unsolicited in their guilt
cruel masters of silence
carriages that drive through the sky
survivors of journeys
through the inner space of my mind
their indented regularity
forming conclusive patterns
in a molten white furnace
they recall a purple day