It is possible that my mental rhythm,
is not so musical,
whispering in the shadows,
an echo of what I didn't see.
I would like the letters to dance
like leaves in a subtle wind,
words intertwined,
baring a feverish silence.
I write what my dead eye saw,
a mirror broken into a thousand fragments,
a labyrinth of shadows and lights,
with verses searching for their foundations.
How I wish they could agree
in what the soul feels and sees,
parallel realities,
a game of mirrors, perhaps.
