If simply all the fear could materialize in a landscape, I’d just harden even more my pace and my sight to its coarse texture,
any drop of blood
as my hands –croaking helpless words- grab the rest of the decaying tissues beneath the layers, colored by dirty drizzles, now outer to any shade of the mind.
That could be simple
Even more complex
the tied knot
such a spider was engulfing me, in silence,
while I was mesmerized by the chants, the chore
the oblivion came
the spot which I groped for
where my persona
-nevertheless the time-
had kept, without object and absurdly,
the last straw of memory.
Beyond complexity, without reaching simplicity,
the future awaits,
as the synchrony of a smoking head.
Nothing but a pendulum,
a still sad pendulum