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Personal Note:

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Poem

Time does not flow within me,
but rather,
it is only a frozen smoke,
a mist trapped between my thoughts
and the forgetfulness that always lurks.
I feel its shadow
treading slowly across my brow,
weary from the burden
of a moment that never ends.
		

Light does not guide my path,
it only reveals the emptiness,
a bottomless abyss
where foreign echoes are lost.
The shadows around me
belong to no body—
they are remnants of my silent questions,
reflections of a void
that I can never fill.
	

My bitterness is not a wound,
it is the proof that I am here,
a hidden inscription
on time’s bleeding parchment,
written in letters that unravel
before I can read them.
I carry deep stigmata within me,
drawn like maps of perdition,
guides toward nowhere.
		

What is my life,
if not a continuous absence
of all we might have become?
What is death,
if not a blind step
beyond the imperfect circle
we’ve drawn around ourselves?
		

And yet, from the stones of my heart
a spring sometimes rises,
from the darkness within me
emerges the light that watches me,
and from the deepest silence
rise words
I do not understand,
but feel as callings.

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