After all, life gave birth to a glass eye, naming it home…
Vacant, full of noise is the Eye, picturing no more than diluted silhouettes painting lips to my soul so the masquerade could imbibe them in a kiss; one red, fresh, one, of my desire becoming the flesh. No more, pictures the Eye, than the shadow of the dream extended as stage over footprints. No more than ghosts crowding the streets from which we, vicious creatures, are just the veils of their pompous being.
Vacant, indeed, full of noise and even so, the Eye, of my gaze makes a label in which I can read my entire bareness dancing the meaning of an elusive life and, as if an Apollo inhabits in the hairs of a tongue, spits clouds of darts with the promise to hunt the core of truth; being that same large, coarse tongue, the skin worn as trophy while I, naked, frozen stiff, brush words that start to get bald, concealing my solitude using the fallen hairs as a toupee…. walking, just to show off a pair of wax wings to stars merely engraved in concrete.
But I know, lost in your heart, you carry one match so the day, my love bringing to light when we finally meet, released, I fly into your arms… again.