fourteen

words leave us in the vacuum
meaning clinging to the sharp corners
of once unblurred letters

sheltered in definitions
through them we assert our futile
need for a human truth

but nothing ever will be true about words
as whatever is true stands
on what cannot be written
what cannot be spoken

words as an excuse
for our unwillingness to create,
for our shame of being cast
from the Heaven we once owned

thirteen

tears, droplets of infinity,
doors to the shallow refuge of our souls
and their only proof

tears, liquid calls to Heaven
as hymn or damnation
but equally divine in their message,
their statement, in front of God,
that we are in His image

tears, chosen words
of speechless divinities
lie in a corner of our heart
as an old instrument
of a dismissed musician

twelve

eleven

will it ever stop?
that tremor in the hands
that gradually faster heartbeat
that flow of uncontrolled thought
that creative paralysis?

will I ever settle?
will my mind stop screeching
with the silent sound of nails
on the walls of a jail?

I crave for the noise of life
to bring silence to my spirit
the uncontrollable desire
to slit open, gushing out
breathing
sleeping

never felt such detachment between reason and spirit
absolute peace one one side
a bloodbath on the other
a detachment from life, from the flow of present

feeling like a heavy rock is gradually sedimenting inside my heart
from scattered remnants of unfinished thoughts,
mea culpas, and mismanaged instincts

a rock made of vacuum

ten

number of completeness
parody of our times
conventional like 10 is not 2 and 3 not 7

what is in fact complete if not our fear of completeness?
... of catharsis?

that umbilical cord, that satanic thread that keeps us on earth
and gags our souls screaming for spirit
feeding us with illusions of independence
of divinity without God
of creation without Creator

we look for completeness in the creations of "God incomplete"
philosophy, knowledge, science, wealth and power were
all made in mankind's own image: incomplete, imperfect, finite
and as kids in front of their broken toy
we look desperate at our grand dreams of emancipation, failed,
at the land bridge to Heaven, impassable

nine

faith

hanging in the balance on the chasm of "reason"
a reason shielding us from ourselves, from our true and vertiginous divinity

is there a reality we can grasp? is there a truth we can reach?
for what is love if not truth in disguise?
and what is love without faith?
an empty shell,
a calculation on false assumptions,
a limited theorem,
a postulate forever unproven

the absolute as the scarecrow of faith
the unacceptability of infinity
beyond its technical utility
the absolute as the necessity to delegate your soul to it
the perception of limited freedom
which binds the worlds to unlimited slavery

eight

restlessness...

feeling the urgency of detachment. Of peace.
The complete absence of the world... to rest in the thoughts
Getting the world out to welcome our self in... like a stranger from the street in need of safe haven.
Can we welcome ourselves in our own little house?
How open are we to our own truths... ?

thinking as peace and war, a conflict with the other self, the one we learn from. That uncomfortable mirror we can't break.

the breath quickens as in preparation for a battle, but there is no war to fight, no place to scream, no ears to listen. There is just the incessant hum of cars running by in a world too static to save itself.