by March 5, 2011 0 comments

No skies, no sun, no sounds,
I live in darkness.

When I think of light
it gets darker.
No candles, no matches,
not even fingers.
Just my soul pretending
to know everything.

Let me hear it:
“Time is like worry-beads!”

Oh, shut up, you all-knowing,
all powerful thing.
I think of shadows and their
shadows sticking on the walls,
as the hands of the clock chase
each other, endlessly. The fibrils
of the Universe are my own veins,
and the horizon’s edge is clear, but…
Suddenly I hear the divine
footsteps and the dog of Poetry
whisper in my presumptive ear:

I run into the bookish darkness.

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