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Poem

Poetry is a drug, mixed in the alchemy of the night,
An elixir of never-ending dreams, the bitter drink of wandering souls,
Poured into the empty goblets of thirsty minds,
And it flows, softly, through the veins carrying the sap of unspoken desires,
A sweet poison that opens gates to hidden worlds.
With every swallowed word, I lose myself in the endless labyrinth,
Where words are torches burning in the hand of time,
Illuminating dark paths where my steps hesitate,
And discovering in the depths, forgotten treasures of love and yearning,
The remnants of battles between dream and reality, between sky and cloud.
In smokey dreams, I let myself be carried by the turbulent rhymes,
That float on murky waters, ink butterflies in their evening flight,
They carry me toward horizons where stars write poems on the celestial vault,
And the moon, the great poetess, pours her silver over seas of unclear thoughts,
Embracing lost souls in eternal poetry, where everything begins and ends.
But, oh, how bitter is the withdrawal when the ink dries up,
And the letters melt into the night, leaving behind only the shadows of silence,
In those moments, my soul breaks, searching for a way back
To that endless ocean of words, where poetry is the drug that keeps me alive,
And in each verse, I find salvation, a lighthouse in the night, guiding me to dawn's light.
Thus, I let myself be caught again in her enchantment, this sacred dependency,
Poetry - my panacea and my curse, the magic that weaves me into a web of dreams,
Where every word is a falling star, and every verse, a new world,
A refuge from reality, where I can fly, fall, be reborn,
In an infinite journey, where poetry is the drug that fuels my soul.

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