Faded tear I was, molded in old flint from which once daggers were wrought. In the one course of the river, like one of the watchers.

I have tithed the mist's petal for my now too bare eyes, and into the boundless, freed from the desires, I began to lose myself. To the stranger delusion, I revealed the terrible clasp of the fire in the roof of the mouth; punishing myself for all the ways I lost.

A God from granite had been collapsing to my unfulfilled endeavors, and in the arid tumult of unmade desires, the icons of the Other I Could Have Been haunted me.

Dissipated by a temporary death, I cried against myself in an unfamiliary voice: 'Now to whom will you comply?' A boundless abyss, behold the traces upon which I will still return home!

They do not know what pain is. At the edge of midnight, to watch the ghost of self departure in an almost unending delirium of insomnia. To kill with each extinguished cigarette a dream and to not know, in the rustling of tobacco consumed by fire, who burns most concealed.

To tie, to untie, and to restrain your dream, in a smoldering, unbroken state with you; marveling at the lexical poverty of your language when you cannot find a synonym for delirium.

To see your eyes sipping the last fragment of fire from the candle you lit in a faded romanticism that still haunts you... and to listen to your thoughts climb indifferently toward what is destined to be your day-after-tomorrow.

And during this bitter delay, to feel how in each splinter of your bones an Atlantis falls, and in each drop of your blood a dear one dies.
Not the pain of the body but the scorching of the soul when the vaults begin to crumble within, and you, with trembling fingers sifting your ashes, wail: 'Where am I?'

Growing weary... to have faith of the last spark from your funereal urn and, upon its eyelash, to surrender to the sleepfor a new day, shivering in silence at the fear of the night to come.