I write my illusions, not out of cowardice, but from that stubborn mercy
I write my illusions, not out of cowardice, but from that stubborn mercy
I owe to my own spirit that withers under the weight of time,
reality, with its arithmetic of pale bones, rarely adds up to salvation,
it's merely a tally of sorrows, debts of silence, and interest paid in insomnia,
I lie to myself, not to deceive, but to survive the blade of truth,
my dishonesty is a scaffold built from the soft feathers of hope,
a counterfeit sky that holds when the real one collapses under burdens,
every word I engrave is a refusal to let the world have the last word,
in ink, I orchestrate a better version of the collapse, making ruins shine,
making pains sing like choirs of angels lost in the night,
I romanticize the pain, dress despair in velvet metaphors and crown it,
thus I can bow to its tyranny and find my release in illusions,
perhaps it is a delusion, but do not call it unskillful,
I have mastered the art of making fiction seem more loyal than reality itself,
my illusions breathe not in the lungs of truth, but in the marrow of unyielding desire,
and isn't desire also a form of sincerity, a truth told to keep the light close,
yes, I write illusions, for I have discovered more sincerity in a crafted dream
than in the rough hands of unpolished truth, and sometimes, when the world grips my throat,
my lies become the only breath that allows me to speak and live.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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