THE THIRD BANK OF THE RIVER

Painting by Antonio Sgarbossa

I loosen my hair in the wind,

writing fragments of poetry

before my last soliloquy

on this barren stage.

Some raw metaphors emerge

from my shadows like wounded

soldiers and all the moons hate me for I am

a dead muse, dragging melancholic

rhymes out of simple words, stretching

this night before I write my unadulterated confusion.

Life is nothing but a vague evidence:

I am about to cross the third bank

of the river, carrying my absurd

in a box of silence, rejecting hope

or the desire for significance.

As I lose control of the night,

being crushed by my own perplexity,

I am doomed to this incomprehensible

moment of me with myself, almost

confessing my frozen disorder.

I can no longer remain coherent,

I can no longer continue my 7-to-5

placid existence.

Close the curtains, please.

Karla Bardanza

Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2011