Wednesday, March 18, 2020

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal writes


I have grown ancient looking 
at the sky. I feel as eternal as
the stars. You would not believe 
how many scars my heart has.

I watch the swans at the lake.
I am inside a dream not my own.
As I wake up from the dream
I hear footsteps on the roof.

The bright sun comes inside from
the window. It is a cruel light that
blinds me. It feels like a garden thorn
from a rose that I did not tend to.

I made the bed and made me breakfast. I ate and went back to sleep. The blue sky brought no comfort, neither did my dreams.

I looked at the moon painted black.
It disappeared and I grew scared.
I let the dream run its course in
search of a love that did not exist.

Who painted the moon black on
such a dark night? I heard the swans cry. I sensed a deadly plot thickening.
I was too weary to wake up.

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