The Cadence of Loneliness
The Cadence of Loneliness
A clock with melted hands strikes nine in my suspended room,
My spine is an old bridge that collapsed beneath the weight of a name,
The sun and moon are the same mask worn in turns by one cursed face,
And in place of your face, only a black hole breathes into my world.
No one waits for me at the door, only a lamp burning without a wick, silent,
My house has doors that keep opening into other houses, never into me,
When I can do whatever I want, with no voice demanding an account from me,
What do you call that: an empty top hat turned toward the sky, or just a cage with no lock?
My days fall like cards from a deck held by a faceless hand,
Depression catches me mid-stride, a trapdoor hidden beneath the stage of my life,
I fall through the floor of time, through mirrors that show me no morning anymore,
Only a mute magician clapping his hands, showing me the same stars again.
The bartender pours into my glass an old spell, extinguished, without fire, without sparks,
It's time itself dressed in a tailcoat, pouring out forgetting, round after round, silent,
I drink the dead elixir from empty bottles, searching for the warmth of some god's eyes,
But the liquor changes nothing anymore — it only numbs the unborn emptiness.
What am I, really — a dream wandering through someone else's skin, or a nameless illness?
If it's just a phase, then name it, blind magician, from behind the curtain,
Behind you I see a chorus of shadows, other players lost through this same world,
All asking, like me, where the line is between guilt and innocence.
I walk on, alone, through a labyrinth of mirrors with no reflections,
With my tired steps, searching for a threshold that keeps retreating further,
I carry in my chest the same old question, woven through a thousand connections,
What is freedom, and what is just loneliness wearing a mask of silk, so often?
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