How many of me
Are the ones who live inside me?
What fulfills me is myself
Or just
The reflex of the reflex of the reflex
Of what I see?

Of the world I belong
What form contains my form?
What lazy wills
Assemble the pieces that move me?

I am the dust of the moments
That time insists to maintain,
A skin with no touch
Of the happenings
To surround every boredom and passion.

I am the greatness of the void
And the megalomaniac smallness
Of an expanding universe.
My universe.

I am the content of the last drop
That overflows the jar
Into verses that could not fit me.
And, in every verse,
The worlds of what I should be made of
Replicate themselves indefinitely,
Revealing fleeting opportunities
That only a mindful existence captures.

There is what I do not see,
Or reflexes would have life on their own;
I feel what is not,
Or feeling would be concrete.

I am the filter that sort out
The possible from the impossible
And, thus, to dignify me
I made of lonely verses
Infinite universes
For the impossible choice
Of being in me.