I tally up my sober victories,
Yet parts of me have flaked along the way,
Signaling an indistinct origin
When nothing was ever had
And eveything would be allowed.
In this curtailing of days,
It's as if I'm violently knocking on the heavy gates
Of some estranged or forgotten Eden
To rescue some flickering flame
To interpose edges on the softest night
Taking hold of my days.
I have never been more naked than I am now.
My entrails have all been exposed.
I awkwardly try to keep my organs
In their right and proper places,
But the parts are not always subsumed into a whole.
My eyes are open, yet still, I cannot be seen.
Like a ghost, I fill up the rooms
With the emptiness of my silent presence.
I inhabit the places between places,
In the marginal and liminal spaces,
Waiting for god or some Godot
To signal that this was it,
That the show is over,
And no ovation is to be expected.
sábado, 9 de dezembro de 2023
For God or Some Godot
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