questions #8

a chaotic map
of roads,
sidewalks,
hidden passages,
roundabouts,
illegal U-turns,
driveways.

and the irony is,
that someone already
walked that map,
before.

and the irony is
that someone already
learned that the pain has
a different grip,
and the blood
has a different taste
in the mouth,
before.

and the irony is,
that someone already
knows what will be
in the end,
before.

but can’t show you
the right way to stop,
and tell you if it
hurts
or
not.

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metamorphosis #4

for many years
you stare into the sand clock
and wait until the last grain drops.

then you throw yourself
into the thousands hungry hands
that’ll rend your body into tiny bits
to bare your panting soul
and dispose
it into the reeking pit,
to rot.

later
when they’ll finish slabber
your remains.

they’ll set you back.
anew!

erect you on your anesthetized feet
and gawk
at you.

no pain
no anticipation
no regret.

alive?

a metamorphose

a Hudson River Waterfront,
a promenade in orange colors,
a wildfire quietly engulfs the sky, sunset.

a walk. the nonchalantly cuddling couples,
phlegmatic strolling yuppies, and the haunting thought, –
“Pygmalion is dead!”

Yes, you outlived him, Galatea. Vivace!
your demiurge is dead, expired, late, disintegrated.
the irony of the Creation is mundane.

in the perspective, dust will turn into the marble,
and you will reinvent yourself with chisel in your hand,
staring at the beloved statue. O! metamorphose.