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Poem

Have you ever wondered what poets hide in their minds,
where universes of words and unspoken dreams lie?
Look closely, but carefully, lest you become the beast
that slowly, slowly splits their skull of fallen stars.
Poets are not made of salt, but of the dust of fallen stars,
easy to break, impossible to fully decipher,
and now, open their minds and you will see it's not neurons,
but crimson ink that pulses, not blood, but something more grave.
Does it unsettle you? It should frighten you, but you haven't seen everything yet,
look closer, the ink takes shape, thin and hollow,
yet it manages to awaken your own dormant neurons,
now put down the scissors, take this rusty blade, I'm not mad.
Cut slowly on the left side, listen to the crinkling of the skin,
fragile like paper, yet I still hand you a blade, you wonder why?
Because the cut must be perfect, so you can see their heart,
be gentle, remove it carefully without damaging the surrounding tissues.
You stop, you look at the veins, some gray, swirling like nebulae,
others transparent, drawn with a white crayon on the dark sky,
but the heart, do you see how it glows with a rhythm that sings a melody,
not of life, but of something lost in the mists of time and desires.
And the mist that rises is not just steam, but oxygen turned to vapor,
pouring from this fragile organ, to feel less,
to hurt less, so much sorrow crushed into such a small space.
Do you want to feel the warmth? Then touch it, but ah, it's cold as ice.
Don't worry, they are still alive, just don't ask where their soul is,
you will never find it, for we are poets,
keepers of silences and lost dreams,
in a world that rarely understands what we truly hide.

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