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"What is truth?", Pilate then asked,
turning his back, about to leave,
"I bear-", replied the Lamb of God,
"... witness to truth. The truth is me."

A question posed so long ago,
but to this day ferments the mind,
as though a cataract which grows
to leave the eye completely blind

and doom a Man to only seeing
the world as flat and lacking depth,
a half-a-lie or  half-a-meaning,
but bear a cross of equal weight.
This is the beginning of a poem i jotted down on my way home. I am planning on finishing it sometime and introducing my idea of the truth, especially it's function in arguments.
David Fesenco May 26
Terraces, people, smoke
rising above their heads,
all of them hiding talks
in the so-needed shade.

Everyone's outside,
interior's empty, but
i think i will go inside,
into the silent gut

of this cafe that i have
been to so many times.
It's seen me when things were rough,
granted it's seen my smiles.

Two weeks left until again
the calendar sheds a year.
The volatility of Men
forces the eye to tear.

Twenty-two, although not much,
is more than i've ever been,
and it seems my time tries to catch
up to the time after me.

What is it that i feel?
hard to tell, stillness perhaps,
but pinned down with barren fear.
But had i another chance

to choose what i could've been,
with all of my blunders in sight,
i still would have chosen me
and still would have come inside.

Having been safely tucked
into the sleeve of my congenital distortion,
i do my time at mercy of today's luck
but still consist of yesterday's misfortune.
I wrote this poem thinking about my upcoming birthday, a recurring event that i am not very fond of
David Fesenco Mar 20
I love you,
Just enough to attend your funeral
so you don't have to attend mine.
The art of loving is a heart one
David Fesenco Mar 19
Hear the steps?
Past the curfew - two feet, counting stairs,
of a drunk man, who's stiffness is eerie.
It's the sound of me climbing up to my place
where there's no one to be doing the hearing.

Hear the jingle?
It's the finger in search of a key,
of a man who's had not enough spirit.
Would my loneliness also abandon me,
if I managed to fall in love with it?
Inspired by Brendan Kennellys poem
David Fesenco Mar 18
You've left me torn.
Now, that you're finished,
you've left me tarnished.

I hear no more

greetings in English,
just byes in Irish.
The title is part of the poem
David Fesenco Mar 17
"For the righteous Lord loves justice. The virtuous will see his face."
Every time I unshut my eyelids, time and I enter a race,
I drag my body out of bed, go to the bathroom to wash my face,
brushing off, like it is dandruff, the feeling of being misplaced.

What do I see lifting my gaze? There stands reflected in the mirror
an emulsion of an unmitigated taker and a poor giver,
and if there aren't any Gods, I know he is a firm believer
that the beauty of the word is nowhere but in the ears of the hearer.

All I see in that reflection is a young man, completely lost
in the sound of old people outside playing a game of draughts,
and on his neck, a rosary from a sailor, all chipped and coarse,
pulling him down to the full basin, with a weighty lyrical cross.

His eyes are empty, on his pale forehead there is a suspicious gloss
like that of polished marble, the reflection is a cemetery of thoughts.
Every second I spent writing, I am now doubting its worth,
all amounted up to nothing, now a mass grave for thousands of words.

I understand that the misfortune of a tongue that is so ill-fitted
comes with the duty of not vocalising everything, keeping it lidded,
so with my memories on paper and with their purport still vivid,
i comprehend the gravity of all the verbal sins i have committed.
A bit of self reflection
David Fesenco Mar 11
I wish i could open up a bottle
and bring myself right back into the times
when i saw you as God, and myself a prophet,
and crawled to your house on the broken glass
of the bottles I'd had, so often, before.

It's such a novelty -
not dragging my bleeding self across the floor,
not seeing, in that trail of red, the springing stems
of hemlock breaking ground, to prove my loyalty
to yet another God who has abandoned men.

/in the jacket of evening mist
i hear vagabonds eating rats.
I remember when being missed
felt like getting a dose of crack./

When choosing to live loved or be dismissed,
i now think that i should have picked the latter,

/there's no misfortune when it comes to fate/

for love is just another form of cancer
that you would only find when it's too late.
Finally finished an older poem
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