The stone of me is yelling against
the openness of life.
Trying to control is a vain game.
I know nothing about me,
those dark miracles inside.
Things are unpredictable and
wild as little stormy beasts
feeding from my doubt,
since I cannot believe
that things can be fluffy for me.
The stone of me is upset,
revealed as it is, wide and raw.
But I don’t have lacrimal glands,
and I dwell in a dry river bed
so I can be aware of my inner tears
when I feel dragged away.
In a hole I spend my time with
those veils which whisper the truth
in nothingness’ ears.
But I know everything is a lie.
So I shout and cry
and I fall sleep without eyes,
concealed inside of my
tough, drained corpse.
The quivering house of my lies,
like a buzzing hive of bees
broken open, collapsed like my
impossible life, my impossible
world that I try to control.