Give it a name.
Give it some shape.
Call it aloud,
and it will come here.

It gets inside.

Into our mind, into our dreams
To carve a new portal of old memories.

We think we’ve sealed it, but time flies into our skin.
Fractals of the multiverse scratch the surface of doubts.
Cataplasm doesn’t soothe our pain.

We are shaped like clay figurines of soft matter,
and so, so deeply fragile!

Drifting joyfully into illusion,
we are children from the far Northland.
Without light and warmth,
on a journey to the forgotten home.

Having only each other…
Seeing, touching, hearing, dreaming…
Closing our freedom in minutes,
we don’t watch the deep sky.

Right there, the rings of Saturn
spinning in their own beat
as our lives get faster.

They reflect our vanity with a soft gaze
until we cross the portal.

Every night,
I open a new door to a secret tale,
a flashback from the threshold.
I wish I had put everything on the right side,
but I can’t find the words to express this state of being.

Happiness is like an ephemeral sound,
trying to escape from tight shells,
squeezing thoughts into a small black hole.

I don’t see a linear existence.
I’m always between whispering dreams,
listening for a long time, a mermaid chant
patiently waiting for a joyful symbol,
a reward for the time absorbed.

Now I am tired, I need to sit down
on a stone of my decisions.
I hope to stay a while in my inert numbness,  
but I really want to be reborn into another story.

I wish to feel true reciprocity one day
without useless words or expectations
and after quietly complete
my last human transformation.

I entered the room crowded
with tangled thoughts.
Something that shouldn’t exist
takes physical shape.

Emotions strain my heart,
stretching my tissue,
piercing with a dull tool.

I scream soundlessly
like in cosmic space
where all sounds are dead.
Smiling outside,
not to make people feel ill at ease.

Yes, I see gray, lead clouds
above human heads.
Angry Egregores stand  
and breathe joyfully.

I would run but my fear
holds me, whispering:
don’t move or you might wake up
The Writhing Dragon.

I’m still learning how to be invisible,
to one day melt in the limpid air.

The circles of time overlap.
You see with myriad eyes.
Rings in different directions are spinning
At variable speed,
Following the invisible spirit.
You already know about everything,
But dogma’s tightness limits
Make you indifferent to
An individual fate lost in time and dimension.
A single person in the turn of the wheel
Of celestial spheres is like
An ant colony crushed by a hurtling machine.
Goal achieved:
Created on the ruins of destruction.
The fear of passing glimpses
Is just an echo of scattered glints
Orion’s Nebula.
I ask and I’m afraid of answers.
I chose the unskilled objection
Rather than conviction about inerrancy.
To be floating in your oblivion
Like a discordant sound
in a harmonic chant
of everything is my privilege,
My existential plan.