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Poem

If my being is not born from words,
What am I, in the vast anonymity?
Not a sculptor of poems with the chisel of language,
Nor a painter stirring the carousel of colors.
If scars do not define me,
What drama bears my name?
The scream that scratches the walls of empty nights,
Or drops of ink spilled beneath the vault of my disorder?
If I am neither the marks carved into the soul's casing,
Nor the persistent echo of pain that beats in the chest's cavity,
Nor sheets of poems scattered on the bedspread,
Who could I be, if not a shadow?
I do not boast the gold of saints,
Nor do I carry my sins as banners.
Perhaps I am just an insignificant being with burdensome dreams,
Too tumultuous to find a place to rest.
Nothing but a word written on a forgotten page,
A weight that measures souls on the scale of the heavens.
A face in the mirror, a return in the thread of fate.
A comet broken with the longing to fly between galaxies.
If scars are not the script of my life,
What other scenario could outline who I am?
I wait for you to look at me with your third eye,
To see beyond masks and expectations.
Cast me to the lonely satellite of nights,
And I will state that I find myself in the darkness of its deep craters.
Extend the brightness of the stars to me, and I'll show you how they can get lost in the infinite.
Only if you could glimpse the truth lying hidden beneath layers of petrified self.
And if you dare, perhaps, to craft comparisons with metaphors that shy away,
You might just succeed in building a bridge over my unseen abysses.
And then, maybe late at night, I'll believe your whispers.

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