counting the uncountable groundless ground,
of my existence and non-existence.
In which colours can I dream the colourless non real reality?
How to morph the amorphous "something" within myself?
Where to hide the aphorisms of my otherness
when my flesh is being burnt just by the suspicion of the truth?
Dreams make me stay, here, longer than I could really stand
and thorns make me transform to what I 've never imagined that I really was.
The fears have become heavy drops of sweat behind the “now[w]here”,
and my "trembling" is my only power and I will not give it up.
-You damned cowards, beware my madness!
I hold light in my hands and my shadow fights the illusions of my fragility,
Questions of absence and invisibility, on my symbolic space,
create a timeless sense on my wings and I 've denied my name and every name.
-You damned cowards, my "trembling" is the transition to my otherness
the only way through the unburied desperation and the resurrected hope!
A consistent sense of non-identity keeps me awake when everybody is asleep,
an internal voice of non belonging within "now" and "here"
a bleeding story tale but when I've denied to give up my weapons
until I save the very last water flame, the remainder,
before the echo in the escarpments of my leaves.
Separate worlds vibrate together
and the "trembling" becomes danger,
the ground becomes the way the curiosity becomes the pleasure.
The only certainty is the uncertenty and the only knowledge the doubt…
My blood is hungry for the chaos and expects everything
-You damned cowards, my negative otherness in my only clothe
my only real aesthetic, now[w]here.