Depoeture

My hands shall write

poetry no more.

And my body shall decay

like a fading star,

simply sitting on an old armchair.

My eyes shall slowly dry,

and drift in madness, purposelessly

looking for a feeble dream

which should have been hanging from the stars.

All because my faith has been shaken

and my creativity has worn off.

In alcohol I dilute myself twice a day,

raining into my body a substance

that does not distinguish from the tears

which persist not to leave the eyeballs.

I have lost my meaning

and now find myself in some kind of dreary desert,

picking up old stones to build my sepulcher.

The sun does not warm my skin filled with scars.

There is an ancient beast inside me

that comes closer, day by day, to pierce my chest

and jump of my clothes.

And I, soaked in my own blood, shall have nothing to say.

Sadly, in a meaningless manner, the words

“At last” shall echo from my lungs into my mouth.

And, with a lyrical whisper, I shall depart from life

in an old canoe to never, ever, write again.

Caio Bio Mello

16/02/2014