CHRONIC CRYOGENIC
Poor thoughts, that die with me,
a mortal with airs of eternity.
Pretentious vanity,
and all for what?
to be dust.
Enamored dust,
of my own dreams,
like a romantic poet,
outside of my own time.
Too much self-love,
I want to freeze everything,
I will preserve everything,
everything valuable.
I'll let myself rot,
but I'll freeze my words,
I want to cryogenize my thoughts.
Too much in love with myself,
not to think of saving the best,
the best, those thoughts.
Prose in verses,
of air.
I will be a priest,
and I will sacrifice myself for Art,
I will cryogenize my soul in poems.
I will write tirelessly, while I still breathe.
I will do alchemy and preserve my life,
in those philosophical words,
preserves of poems,
chronicles of life,
of my life.
I will be a sick man,
a chronically sick man of living,
until the end comes to everything.
I am a chronic cryogenic of eternity,
that eternity that does not exist on earth, nor is it possible.
I will clone my poems in you,
you will be a clone of my words,
they will absorb you and revive you when you read them.
Words from a cold heart when it lived.
Words in the networks, in books, in diaries, on paper,
to float beyond the death of a frozen soul.
Chronicles of someone hated and revered when they lived,
someone who left no one indifferent wherever they went,
who loved himself so much that he cryogenized his poems,
only to be forgotten, without any remedy.
No one can conquer death,
but there is always the illusion
of donating something valuable,
a poisoned gift,
to be read,
to be enjoyed,
or, to be hated.
Cryogenic,
chronic
of living,
perhaps,
maybe,
it could
be.
