Starting and traveling

With three serpents moving besides me
To talk about separations and feelings
Predicting your personal time of expectation
So that it never belongs to me.

When saluting a gold challis
That is never the same each day
Accompanying its unique variation
That each day repetition is impossible

I dare to close my eyes
In the middle of the show
In which the force is measured
For the way of its development

And I agree, as if it depends on me,
Referring to the process of vanity
For someone who places a grain of sand
In the eye of somebody who is facing the sea

Since the shore that knows no vessels
Pushing him deep into the forest
From where the wood produced by the trees
Well arranged could become as tools.

And the premonition

That everything is lost
That all would have been in vain
That everything will be reduced to words
And that you could be wrong.

In the midst of weeping
Where even the fish can drown
Capable of covering the entire desert with tears
Without leaving the least trace of humidity

Somebody who wants to enter so much
Desists to anything that can lead him to it
Giving a touch the possibility to being magic
That only emerges when she abstains from contact it

So that what exists can reflect without fear of rejection
Something that could have been worse
And is selected for itself
As starting point and not as a way already traveled.

–

Photo by Ashley Batz on Unsplash