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
