Monday, January 21, 2013

The Swallow and the Vulture

Regina, you’re my darling, baby.
How the hell I was supposed to lose you?
How the hell I was supposed to let you alone in this loathsome world?

I’ve craved for you in the misty rain of the latest June.
I’ve cried for you during the last 7 damned years. And you never were nigh.
I swear I’ve always craved and cried for you, my darling…
Until my lachrymals were drown in tears, and then dried.

Every single afternoon, I’ve being waiting for you.
Full of sorrows and laments. Full of shame. Full of dirt.

In every single loneliness, I’ve called you in distress,
Ripping my throat with a dumb, wild howl that shivered the marrow in my bones.

All my dreams were slaughtered, in the most agonizing pain.
One by one, torn apart from the tender brain that once has dreamt them.
And I was afraid of the alive iguanas, the ones that eat the men who don’t dream.

Regina, I still find myself been a believer.
An apostle of the constellation of your moles.
A disciple of the beauty fractal pattern your red beating heart draws.
The prophet of the black magic we create. The black magic we used to create.

They say destruction is another way of creation,
But the crystals on the window are still broken and the snow comes inside,
Filling the room with blue and tiny particles that are dissolving my being…

Descending to Tartarus, clinically dead, grey matter still beating electrically.
I was seeking redemption, I only did find purgation.
Encouraged to eat all the inked vomit once regurgitated to the world,
I was regurgitated to the world myself.

Regina, I started to breathe again!
You were vanquished. I was triumphant

No more need. No more home.
The soul now burns inside. Incandenscence of life.
No more strangers. No more love.
The thoughts burst like color fishes in a bowl. Incandescence of life.

The glass’s recomposed and the blizzard whistles outside.
I keep vomiting black dreadful ink and the reason is not you, Regina. Not anymore.
A dead bird is lying covered by white dusty flakes of snow.

Remember that ancient oracle. It told you so:
“You would be a dead swallow in the snow of January,
Whilst her wings of grief would take her to Eternity.”

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