Yap, tale,
me the dog
(here, a wow, what? please),
in circles we go,
a merry go round,
if only I could be
the ballerina...,
oh but no,
I can't dance,
not allowed,
I just turn and flip,
yap, flipped mind,
chasing a tale,
round and round,
I use words for a rebound,
winded up, in shall not.

In the steamed mirror,
I looked my mother in the eyes:
*well, hello there, what?,
yeah, we did it,
messed it all up again."

I ran out of words.
No... not words.
I ran out of feelings.
Although...
I ran out of purpose.
Okay, let it go.
I ran out on purpose.
Nope.
This is not it.
It rains. In me.*
There.

Such a fascination!
A line or less
and the story was done,
we'd leave the cinema
with dreamy eyes,
maybe a sense of relieve
for exiting that parallel world.

We'd step fiercely,
a heroe to be,
can't you see?,
underneath the costume.

But then the end
comes in front of us,
its symphonical pomp
is a seed of fear
and we grow a human size,
a small one.

A cheap tape and the line
stutters the end the end the end.
One by one, all characters
in our own story
desert the scene and
we roam in a parallel world
of unfamiliar faces
where memories lack of proof.

There we stand or not so,
heroes of loss, on our own,
and a line or less, the end,
overlaps a swirl
of autumn leaves.

(You may all leave, now:
there are no credits
in one-man-size productions.)

(for a.)*

mapped wishes
handed over,
blown into the wind

a path of gold
in dawning roads

sanguine brilliance,
pearled frailty

fallen

flattened
crackling

a tracery
of bones or hands

reaching out
for the ******
of a beginning

time walks.
giant steps
carving
an absence,
a heart shaped
niche.

time walks.
rosary stones
ground
into nothing.
not an echo
nor a breeze.

the old heavy sinking sun rised
and all dawn's doubts were gone
with the morning star.