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