looking at the “each other”
in the middle of both
this only way through,
to embrace this never-ending ceremony
where the chaos began its story,
wherever I never caught you,
whenever a rose is cut,
burn, defeated,
in this love dressed in war,
knowing that what was cut
had reached its time.
and that the remnants were
a “did-not”, a “never-was”
dying into memories,
coalescing in the midst of them,
around this precipice,
which dissolves them without mercy:
their whole heart
precipitating as never before,
as though they could never not be,
just as they arrive,
never staying,
never stopping,
only flowers falling,
as though they were never meant to bloom,
never brushing the life
behind the two sides of the lips.
To fracture the abyss itself
is to feel its in-between like a blade of air
that senses every ending before it comes alive.
Isn't that what it's all about?
Feeling the meaning of both.
The right to pose the right question,
and daring to say its truth
the very truth that would make us tremble,
while being devoured by all of this,
coalescing in the void of us,
still I am, still you are not,
just all these leaves,
petals and pages
flying fiercely through chaos,
only to catch one with my hands,
two, three or infinite roses,
and us becoming
the centre, the thorn,
this storm;
forcing the living to make the move,
to feel the romance of whatever
makes them desire without making a confession,
dragging every story, behind,
as it surrounds the unrealizable,
the trying, the capture of the uncatchable,
the art flying alongside memories too fragile
to hold themselves yet ravaging them
into a beautiful form of chaos.
All of it, spiraling just to dream
that one can touch the sky
for an instant to pierce a star.
To catch chaos into chaos,
the “doing and undoing”,
and our minds always elsewhere,
seeing the catastrophe of those names
from the hand that writes them on a page
as it erases them.
The beloved, the loss, the moon, its hidden side;
The brush, the Louvre, the enemy, the friend;
you, me, the fall, all these roses;
left behind as the tail of a comet,
only to feel again
what life could be about
from the highest peak
and there, sense it:
one silver plateau step,
as one and no one,
and the soul rising as the most radiant
and unique rose on Earth.
Every “I could” in a savage instant
of brutal in-sight:
the true abyss of the heart.
–two, three, four roses
and the only thorn
would be in your hands.
The wind not speaking the fire,
but the storm being the abyss,
the mirror, the tail, the tale,
of throwing
All Of You
into
verses.