knots: games of ego

what is the opposite

of love-i ask.

when you know,

you find the poles

where the double-faced

god lives in between.

to fly on one wing

through holes in the wind,

blinded, without orientation,

no bird will find home

nor will a man find light:

he will meet his death,

tumbling through hell.

if no angel guides him

he will be lost

to the darkness,

sinking and falling,

falling and sinking

until gravity spits him

out the other side

in the waste land

where nothing exists

but ghosts and mirrors,

wrecks of dreams,

and he will not reach

the well, the water of life

as he could not believe:

is giving up sin

or human condition,

born in longing, at night,

in suffering pain,

a contraction of hope

in the juice of the buds

of his soul, deprived

of water, caught in

loops of his mind?

do we all fall

in the illusion of self

or can we burn and 

turn out of ashes?

i cannot shed my skin,

not separate from

this body given to

me by the stars:

they are dead, i am 

alive, i bleed and bleed.

between wanting and giving

there are pauses, silence,

i pray for music, for joy,

but i don't know my peace

nor the depth of prayer:

how can i let love flow

when i only wish to go

to the sea, the sky,

the milky way: to shoot me

for going without weight.

i am too much for me

and for you. how can

i find my other wing:

i buried it, i buried it

and forgot the place

i don't want to remember.

memory is cruel, and

mercy is to forget.

only imagination can

let love live or die,

and the heart talks

without one word.

in the waves i drown,

to ride them is hard,

and many is the times

when giving up

looks sweeter than

to stay and swim

when we don't know

the way to the shore.

all suicide is forgiven,

all destruction means

nothing, all failure

is part of the journey.

kill me, death,

chase me, wind,

kiss me, love

and let me be

strong and tender,

let me grow and blossom,

give me shelter,

i give my breath and blood,

my fruits, my scent,

my petals, my essence

until it will be time

to go.

i need water

to dilute my acid,

space in the garden,

the hand of the gardener.

without i will turn

a weed, killing all

with words and words,

picked up by strange birds

who will spit my seed

in the deserts, between

stones and windmills,

a meaningless dance.

i am an old man,

the fingers of time

move, i do not wish

to die bitter,not bitter,

i step to the side,

my mouth a sword,

i let all pass:

can i smile?