The story must be told

A man cloistered in his own pain.

His eyes in dreadful fear.

His thoughts in dark clouds.

Behold the symphony of death.

A subhuman being

devoted to shattered dreams.

His blood running through his veins

(but also through the walls).

It was all in vain.

The vanity circus in sheer winter.

The marvelous show of life

crunching existence with its teeth.

The needle eats the flesh

in a tender gulp of laugh.

Tears mixed up with blood

roll down and keep dripping.

His soul is made of sorrow.

His sorrow is made of sand.

The sand is made of past.

The past no longer lives.

He is a bunch of parts all tight together

to form what should be,

but still… He couldn`t make it.

He is a flaw.

As fallible  as life. Flawful.

As a jug full of air.

His lungs have webs.

And his breath smells like putrefied flesh.

He is a dusk.

An immortal dusk.

The imperative day`s end

which never comes and never rests.

Or maybe… He is the dawn.

Dawn of a dark day.

Dawn of the eternal night

which will come in a close future to overcome life.

Behold the symphony of death.

And we all shall be afraid.

We shall have no choice

and we shall suffer.

The night will crawl through the valleys,

will enter our homes,

will eat our children

and spit our flesh.

Everything must have an end.

The sun will end. The moon will crush.

The son will end also.

We won`t be able to breed anymore.

And death will give birth

to a single child

blind, deaf, and hungry.

And the kid will rule the world.

Held by its father`s hand,

the kid will hunt us down.

And the father…

The father is only made by stories.

The father is told in our poems

is sung in our songs

is portrayed in our portraits.

He lives in silence. In our nightmares.

Only through stories can he be seen.

And no man on earth has the guts to admit it:

we are doomed. Since the moment

we spoke our very first word.

We are doomed.

Caio Mello

09/12/2011