The shapes of the world,
the fields of thought.
Why do I feel so guilty?

Written words,
released from the mental space.
My brain is my friend—antagonist:
incoherent, predictable, heavy,
of different colors.

The language of metaphors—
It’s medicine for a tough day.
Anesthetic treatment chosen
by destiny, angels’ voices, or DNA.

Could I feel safe in the painful crowd?
He, then she, and finally I,
chosen for terrestrial experiment
because of mirror soul fibers.

Existence like the footage, flashes,
partially canceled by collective amnesia.
All this spiritual, material stuff.
Like an extended passage of life.

One day despair,
another day hope,
with time acceptable, resilient
a true miracle of resurrection
after difficult moments.