In the velvety night, caressed by shadows

In the velvety night, caressed by shadows, A poet whom I deeply respect whispered to me, That my verses, through his cold and harsh eyes, Were but weak jokes, a pale reflection, Not slicing arteries, not unlocking true agony, But instead, terribly to pronounce, accessible. I lift my head under the dream-laden sky, Grasping the truth like a bouncing rubber ball, Determined not to hide. In this world of reflections, Of scratched masks and overflowing illusions, Rejecting the utopia of sincerity for the spectacle of the prism, Silicon Valley brings virtual realities, And I, with my pen and stigmatic signs, Bring forth virtual poetry, not my soul, But a perfect simulation, a construction of smoke, Mirrors and crocodile tears. So come, take your place on the carousel of my heart, You will find Hollywood blood, hard luck stories, Wounds made of plasticine, rented mourners, Tragic confessions and inflatable dolls of lost lovers, What do you seek, my sweet? What makes everything good for you? What does integrity mean in a world of irony and facade pain? Yes, I can possess integrity if that excites you, In an era where blood clots are art, and jokes are farce, I will learn, versatile as I am, I will cry those ninety-six tears, Develop stigmata on command, embrace surplus suffering, To maintain my place in the artistic galaxy. But if you are wrong, upon your death, You will traverse into hell, Where Groucho Marx will tickle your bare foot, With Edgar Allan Poe's feathered quill. So the truth remains steadfast in our tormented minds, For we are sculptors of virtual pain, rooting our identity, In an abyss of irony.