Disorientated mourning



 






High I carry the truth of the reasons, tensed, persistent over invisible mutilations
I want to hold back my neck, not to let it cripple against this vertical track
Where, the head hanging, I try to manage without what nourishes me

Who would have thought that the folds and creases drawing me
My spine bent under the loss
Collapsed under the shade of my stomach
Would be tied up?
Would condemn me

To one unique story
Crushing, under the arc of its time

Compelling, around its ability to focus only on the ignorance of myself
My defenses and their prayers to the useless

To constantly renew themselves towards absent paths







July 2015