I am a square inside a circle.
sometimes we speak tangentially,
but mostly I try to crawl
back into its center.
the way it rotates around me,
every hour, every day
is how I wish myself to be:
round, lively, unafraid.
but those **** edges
move back and forth,
reminding me how close, yet far
my ideal self slides
more and more, away.

January.
The sky is empty,
no birds to draw
geometric art,
except for some
airplanes, that rush
meaningless
from one place,
to another.

Cornea,
my private shield
against sun’s rays
burned gold,
while straight into
the sun I looked,
to turn my black,
wide open eyes into
red-yellow bold.

Dying
is like sleeping,
with no more dreams
to rush inside
and shake you up,
night after night.
And all those
memories you stored
in archive shelves
of blood and bone
will be by then
forever lost.

the real, unveiled
by a film before,
so stunning, no eyes
could see it anymore.

short dreams interrupted,
images almost forgotten
in motionless sight of cold,
night sky's dark turns gray,
as morning’s light unfolds.
in quiet rooms grown visibile,
silent trains of thought arrive
to turn night's voice inaudible.

hope stretches out
makes you dream
of faster, larger
synchronous,
stronger synapses
that show you
the same path
in different light,
that spans across
those past attempts
and future thoughts
still out of sight.