The Dream Flees The Dream...
The dream flees the dream,
nothing can hold it, neither
rope, nor magnet, nothing. And this remains,
wood that burns and smokes, alone.
From the shoulder to the belly, a stake.
Of flesh with an air of flesh, a stake.
Years, days, years:
they grind, devour, revile,
through a channel of silence,
with eyes open, mouth silent,
something broken that was alive, in the centre.
And if a poem, this one, all poems, are words,
are words enough, do they suffice?