Unfaithful, renegade, unbelonging.
Like a cat staying where the food is.
But the guard dog also keeps quiet when fed.

Maybe cats and dogs are not so different.
After all, hearts are children
who look for what they desire.

A man walks home at night,
alone as a mountaintop.
He created himself that way.
He has been lifting himself,
for a long time now, above
all heads, all hearts, himself.
From his loftiness, he dominates
his world from a kind of open
prison, where he can be seen
but not reached.

The
forces
he used
to create his
absurd altitud
are not clear. Some
might even think that
it's useless to live like
this, connected but removed,
always in motion, away from it all.

But it is a mistake.

If you want to reach him
there is a stair, steep
and grim. And you might think
"I will be brave, he is but a fool
looking into -and afraid- of the abyss
he created himself". And if you dare,
and you finally reach the first step,
you will find him waiting to guide you
around, into and accross. You see,
this man that walks home at night,
as alone as a mountaintop, knows
that nobody escapes from the sunrise,
that some happiness is strange,
and that the only real tragedy
is to have taken all this time,
to have accumulated grain upon grain,
melting the sand in the crucible
of his heart, to create this bluff
looking into world, and have noone
to share the view with.

I doubt you understand my silence,
otherwise, there wouldn't be one.

Trying to beat the heart in the head. I am
trying to find the place I left, that I loose,
when I sat out to come and find myself.
Blame it all on me, it's a natural conclusion.

Felt good, heard fine, while I was going,
it felt so easy and quick, lines where crossed.
To be a broken somebody, somebody else,
more than you care and less than you know.

The girl that I knew under the trees
has also left and in her flight she took
the gift and the time, the love song,
the moon the boy was looking in her eyes.

And I don't know if I can do it anymore,
go back out through the windows, back to
the milky swirl of stars, again start.
I don't wanna talk about it but I'm saying it.

Overall, this is about everything and it's not.
This is not a sad face, a broken poem, a peakhole
into and angry soul, if you can understand,
the words are carefully arranged.

I'm fine thank you, and you? How much time,
tell me, do you think you can stay, I'll sleep
in you. You are, some say, the monster under my bed,
you are, i'd say, the reason I can breath.

I'm doing it again, materializing, I am
halfway there to cross another window. This is it,
I wanna talk about it but I'm not saying it,
would you meet me halfway there?

The beast that needs to be tamed lives
within yourself. All the other despair
is smog being blown away by the invisible
mouths of those who, with cries and silence,
are trying to breath and move around
under water, trying to think which was
that one turn that brought them here
and started the person that became.

All these right-and-wrongs that are said
and also those who remain silent,
all these intentions toward a saved life,
and all these doors that are being opened
and closed, are so much like the efforts
of a writer creating a character for
a book that will be finished on a deathbed
and surrounded by teary-eyed beasts in human skin.

You could have been mine, instead
you choose to be yours. Bless you,
in the name of an uncertain god.
In all your wisdom, you choose to be true
to the one person that matters: yourself.

When you appear and everything else falls quiet
there's only one voice left, mine, from bellow,
from the forgotten memory in the chest.
A fallen memory, it laughs and I always fall asleep.
Always. You aren't there either. You are
and you are not.

Magic trick 1 : I can pull elephants out
from a hat (even against your will).

Magic trick 2: amazing flowers grow,
invisible (even against my will).

Maybe I'll like myself one day, someday,
and that will be another magic trick.
The last one.