I already feel the grief of the piling
Of more than two sleepless nights under the blackness
Covering the veil of celestial aurora.
I feel the shut down
Of noisy unpleasantness, rough dozing in memory of lava stabbing
The skin,
Giving place to a higher weariness than the circular and herculean passage
Of stars that hover on summit tops of alienated minds or just lost in themselves,
Weariness that befalls my resting eyelids
As if allowing a glimpse beyond the fog that covers the spaces of fleeting dreams that lead to nowhere.
Maybe, and just maybe, in me slumbers the latency
Of having the randomness as silent adviser of the turning
Of pages as mere coincidence
Of being servant of excruciating melancholy that really evolve,
Wraps, embrace, weaves and spins through cadences of pilfering seconds
That pass me by whirling quiet in their duties.
Those also flee from me, like dead poetry thieves escaping me through my fingers like any unrequited or forgotten passion through boatloads of vain moments…
And only fools do transpire to search for the essence
Of themselves or of their existence
As fleeting as the bravery
That comes and faints fading in a sea of bad luck.
Well then, I appear, dizzy pierced by the scope of the life that is felt more in sorrow than in the door of glory, or would not be if it could ever remain minimally
Ajar
And went into me the meaning of feeling,
Which sometimes seems to exit
Much outward when I lose myself in more gibberish and sublime lack of having more to do indeed.
For what do I serve existing if I don't even know why do I write?
And so I lie awake thinking more than dreaming, unable to sleep
Never rested, or perhaps almost close to reinventing the wheel, or otherwise just silly word servant
And perhaps more executioner of myself than mainly butler in the service of all the perversions of the universe that conspires more against me than everything and everyone.
I wish I could be right if all of this allowed me to stop thinking and live,
Or at least sleep.