The Unlived Life in Crystals of Ash
The Unlived Life in Crystals of Ash
The world is full of people suffering from the effects of their unlived lives,
they become bitter like poisoned honey and critical like judges of jade,
rigid like ice statues that cry in their interior of frozen fire,
not because the world is cruel but because they betrayed their inner stars.
The artist who makes no art becomes cynical like a white canvas burned by hatred,
he mocks those who paint with their fingers full of rainbows,
but inside he carries unseen paintings that decompose in the tomb of the mind,
unspoken colors that rot like flowers in the desert of his desolate soul.
The lover who doesn't risk loving mocks romanticism like a profane,
he laughs at couples who dance in the rain of stars and embrace their dreams,
but his heart of stone of amethyst cries mercury tears in magical nights,
because he knows the love he laughs at was destined for him like a lost crown.
The thinker who doesn't commit to philosophy mocks belief like a disease,
he screams in silence against those who believe in something greater than the cosmic void,
but in his depths the unspoken thoughts struggle like suffocated fish on dry land,
the philosophy he avoids calls him from oceans of possibilities never explored.
All suffer in their shining silence because they know deep down the cruel truth,
that the life they mock with their teeth of broken glass was meant for them,
they carry in their chest cemeteries of unfulfilled dreams that gnaw their bones slowly magically,
betrayed inner possibilities that become ghosts in the empty halls of regret.
Their bitterness is an armor of ice that melts the soul slowly but surely,
their criticism is a crystal sword with which they stab themselves in the darkness of night,
their rigidity is a jade sarcophagus in which they bury their own living dreams,
and all know in silence that it could have been different if they had the cosmic courage.
The world is a huge museum of unlived lives that float like ghosts through the air,
each person carries within them galaxies of possibilities that will never see the light,
artists without art lovers without love thinkers without deeply committed thoughts,
all suffer from the disease of the unlived life that consumes their soul like a cold and silent fire.
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