Like a point, someone,
with a beginning, one more.
A marking of life,
like a sculpture,
that is being made,
carving that journey.
Taking my form.
Between points, life,
that passes us by, days,
days, to the final point.
Among so many, there,
now also,
in the moment
There I am, that's how it is,
in that point,
melancholic
decadent,
And resigned,
between points,
that pass,
through my life.
Moments,
more points.
Waiting,
for that point,
of arriving,
at the end,
at that final,
let's call it
final point.
Meanwhile,
connecting
in the living,
those points,
some points,
like poems.
Between distances,
on that walk,
of our life.
Very slowly,
in me, a delicate
final passing.

Connecting points,
until that point,
called
final point.
In the beauty,
of being a point,
among so many,
other points.
In time
of existing.
A point,
of life,
meditating,
on life,
and the end.
Nostalgic
for the past,
for points
of my yesterday.
Connecting
points,
on that
path,
of living
of today,
tomorrow
without knowing
if, the point arrives,
of completion,
that terminal point.
In the end,
those

Life is a line that connects points until death...