There is a voice to any given night that ignites the presence of life. We are under the spell of a darkness that overwhelms our time. We wither with these theses. The word poetry doesn’t rhyme with anything. Nothing. Deep withins us we find the ignition key to pure panic. Most thoughts escape you. These withering whispers tease us. You only need to find one word, one shape, one tune, that makes you feel at ease. The triangle of concord. Poetry is not words. A poem is a hum tingling our spines. The poet doesn’t lend his spirit to any system. The vanguard of the proscenium withers. When we wallow into coma we translate the world hum. From these deep and docile dreams they distill the words that makes it worth it.
Untangling our minds.
We hang, like bats we hang, in humid caves. We whisper these. Our fangs, dipped in ink, now pouring down onto the paper patiently, translating echo. We translate these whispers. As we sleep. The poet waits. Until the ephemeral epiphany. We feel at ease with these whispers. The poem more than words combined. The poem a color, a shape, or even lines. A translation of the human mind. We sweep these sweet sheets, with the shadow of a sigh. Along the rim we dance. Ignoring the void. Mind blank. Facing the absolute we swallow the sorrow of mankind. All is weird. The door to this dimension demolished. All is worried. The plausible is found where no one searches. There is a voice within any given soul that inflames the force of the fabled famine. Poverty. We live the lives of the left behinds. Poetry. We wander out of tune with time. Life a burning tower.
They expect. They are waiting. Waiting for the sublime. All within the realm of possibility. As these thoughts linger. Paper. Paths. Eternal return of the endless night. Pain. The mission is to translate. To elucidate the delicate. Once and for all. All at once. All for nothing. We see the world through broken mirrors. Through the skewed view we find whatever is on our mind. Through our coma we come together. We rest upside down, chin to chin, seemingly blind.
Wondering woe. Floundering foe. Finally focused.
It drips, it’s mixed, the maxims untangled. The world as is. Not this. This is world as was, as will be, never were. Indefinite infidelity. Insignificant instant. Infinite enigma. This we translate. Not into words. Or sometimes yes. Though shapes triumphs content. Always. This we willfully admit. We ignore the social contract. We fight. The poet speaks. His cracked lips sparkling. His words only for the vanguard: «Sing me.» He hums. «Sing me.» He speaks to the kingdom come, the blue moon, the other world. Infinity. The scars, the sacred, the scared. We breathe the last breaths of grief as the light hits our pillow. Through the blinds. At dawn the mind is mystified.
What did we find? The poetry of a human mind.