Time frames

Cutting the time frames

I try to put my memories back together.

None of them is mine,

Faces I see are unfamiliar.

Would I recognize your face

If it appeared on one of the frames?

I shut down,

No more memories.

The last thing I remember

Is trying to reach you

With a helping hand,

And watching you being engulfed

By the fire of pride.

I will create a story

Where you did not burn,

But were left behind;

Abandoned to contemplate your reflection

And the poison you have so willingly accepted.

Cutting the time frames,

I try to put my memories together.

This time, without the fire.

 

 

Smudge of paint

It’s become too late.

Too late for you;

Too late for me.

But my brain keeps painting

Possible pictures

With watercolors of impulses.

Nothing hurts more

Than taking yourself out

Of the naive sentimentalily

That had been in charge until now.

Time doesn’t exist.

Hearbeats are fictional.

Breathing is pretentious.

Life is nothing but

A smudge of paint.

Covered with death

Once I met Death.

I was waiting for my bus when

She came and sat next to me.

-Is it my time? – asked I.

-Are you ready? – replied she.

I didn’t know what to respond.

Was I ready to die?

My bucket list half-full,

Only 20 years lived.

But I’d never felt

So tired,

Tired of it all.

-Is that what you want? – asked Death again.

I stayed speechless.

She smirked, and said

-Not right now. But I won’t leave

Until you give me an answer.

I felt cold.

I couldn’t see her anymore;

Missed my bus,

And kept standing

On the same place.

The bus crashed;

I saw people die,

And Death standing on top.

She was still looking at me.

I knew she was waiting,

And that she’d keep on being near.

I turned around and went home;

Full of nothing.

Covered with death.