Luci spente.

È rimasto solo un faro a
illuminare il centro della scena.
L'atrio è vuoto, a parte me
e qualcuno lì negli ultimi posti.
Il palco è freddo, incompleto.

E vorrei scaldarlo di nuovo,
senza voler seguire un copione,
senza aver paura di balbettare,
senza la paura che le luci si spengano,
di nuovo.

Manca però l'attore a cui più tenevo,
quello che ha dato una nuova vita
a questo teatro di infantili drammi,
per dare spazio a singolari commedie,
oltre ad arricchire i miei racconti,
e soprattutto apprezzarli.

E vorrei che tornasse quella luce
che saturava ogni sorriso,
che faceva brillare il silenzio,
che fermava per un istante il tempo,
almeno per concederci l'occasione
di un degno ultimo atto,
con la speranza che sia lontano,

lontano,

o, almeno, felice.

Passion drives poetry
Aligning my imagery

With truths deep inside of me
I’ve longed to break free

From suffering and hate
From chucking dinner plates

I reflect sipping nectar
Seeing how I got better

Feeling all I’ve conquered
All I have sobered

Now I glow, illuminate
Engrained in this trait

Growing never knowing
Destinations all fake

Life,
built and driven by dreams,
compelled by needs,
conquered through opportunity,
sustained by dedication,
longed for by desire.

Desire, which drives dreams,
with the folly of burying them
in the present routine
and in superior external decisions.

This partner desire, divided,
by indecision and power,
by wanting and duty:
yields and withers.

Surrendering to destiny and fate,
woven into the horizon,
blind to the present,
credited to the past,
premises of the future,
entangled in possibilities
irreverent to the central,
present, and adjacent conditions:
of life, like metamorphosis,
mutable, unavoidable, and relentless.

Faced with assumptions and
eventualities,
is what’s meant to be, to be?
Perhaps, in the undulations of the search
for the fleeting existence.

A tattooed man, burly and grey,
twists his hemp-fiber rope.
He thinks only of this cable’s lay,
not of wistfulness or unfulfilled hope.

His skin is bronzed and deeply creased
echoing the waves of the sea.
The grey wisps of his forearms’ thin fleece
recall thousands of mornings misty.

His thick fingers grasp like old iron anchors
as his mind glides through his tasks.
He pays no heed to the long-faded cankers
on his worn body from times long past.

Silently he furls the white canvas sails
and stows the great ropes below.
He calmly swabs with a mop and a pail
all the sea salt on the deck white as snow.

The now naked oak masts still rise to blue skies
as seagulls circle and sing their own lay.
But the sailor man hears not their cries —
He turns the capstan: Anchor aweigh.

The oaken ship now glides at slow pace,
adrift on the wide open waters.
A smile takes shape under grey beard’s lace:
He seeks the hand of Poseidon’s daughter.

He’s the last of the crew on this ship of the line.
He sails to be one with the sea.
He waits in calm as the smell of the brine
signals his new bride has welcomed his plea.

Ages hence a wreck will be found
with just one skeleton aboard.
But upon one bony finger, a round
gold band shines out like a vast hoard.

The sentinel stood
on the stone parapet
under heavy storm clouds
that stained the stone wet
and as the sleet fell
he turned his collar high
and, stoic, did his rounds
with the faintest little sigh —
His simple task was this:
keep watch over the town
no matter wind or weather —
the corporal earned quiet renown

I built it with wisdom
So that it may survive criticism
I built it with caution
So that it may retain perfection

My love saturated in every action
Every pain , impending completion, erased
Due to this fatal attraction
Every piece Harmoniously placed

And finally I rest
Seeing your immaculate function
Shall I run a test?
To temper your reactions

Ego was stripped from skin
in layers until the trail of tears
was no longer visible to the blind
eye

Monks chant in the distance
as souls dance to the melancholy;
strength of the limb is tested
...wearing Sunday's best

Frayed rope is placed on ivory
rough against the delicate truth
only to be choked before it could be heard

Lover be ******; pained eyes meet
the noose being tightened by hands
that once cupped the breast of the Mother
...betrayal found in man's milk

Foundation is kicked away in one swift
motion; crushing the pathway of life
swaying with eyes wide open

Ego killed the delicate that day
a day of broken promises; dreams
forever became a lie, the lie truth

Delicate is still here in the shadows
swaying between trees in an eternal
dance in Sunday's dress
...waiting for the neck to fully break

Haunting Ego's chance~

I was seventeen,

with all my being I longed --


to offer myself.