Sunday Page

Everyday I see it in the mirror.
Always staring back, puzzled and distraught,
As if the incoming plot was never his to choose,
Never his to predict.
But there aren't enough adjectives,
Enough answers of his, to give.
For the questions never stop, tumbling down.
Every step, feels already taken.
All the words, feel deviant.
And its significance, lost.

And so it found a solution:
My shadow hides inside the sun,
And waits for someone to come,
Knocking down the door.

In its confortable coma.

Inevitably, one day, it came out.
But it was too bright.
And so it left, carelessly erect, in a painless theft.
As a brilliant robber, that took nothing away.
As a congested vessel, pulsating in its own still life.

Amusing how hours fly by.
Seconds flicker and fold.
A short and weary breath, just a few more to death.
Sing it louder, wash away the residual noise.
Make the background stiff and cracked.
Bring it to focus, leave it nodular and don't look.

Now we have some concentration:
But it feels like there's nothing to say.

No. 321-A

And so, there it is, slowly ticking away.
More than hearing it, I can feel it, cracking away my flaws.
Ressonating inside my head, like a warning,
But I already know. Already it taints my thoughts.
Congests my view. Fogs my tact.
The lingering shadow of what should be done.
What has been done. What will be done?
Sacrifice a fleeting feeling.
Womanize, sleep in the absence of objectives.
Wake up, ready, for another has lost the round.
Take in, steady, don't bother about the sound.
It just tells it is known.
Shows what was seen?
Surely not remembered.
All I see are bottled bots.
Endlessly replying,
To our sad proposal of life.
Oh. Well.
Order in some more shots.