Hosting the air

Painting by Ekatarina Panikanova

The cruelest moment is now
when truths are spit
and words are like sharpened knives.

Seconds bite me:
the clock is striking again
in my angry minutes of dejection
and madness.

My red mournful lips don't regret,
don't tremble.
I have dishevelled my pain
and unbottoned my chest tenderly,
throwing all my dices
in a last attempt or maybe scorn.

Another hourglass has been inverted
to begin timing life as
the sands of time
run out sadly.
I count each grain,
listening to the White Rabbit:
"It is too late!" He says.

Can't follow him
to his hole anymore
for I am tired of unlocking doors.
Can't swim through my tears like Alice,
as I try to shrink my bastard days
and window nights.

I am not Lady Lazarus:
can't be your opus.
I can only rise
and watch carefully your dissolution:
an antiacid tablet in water.
It will be faster
than the next grain falls.
It is not revenge.
I know your wounds
will ache in me anyway.
It is love and hatred,
jealousy and sorrow.

While life follows its flux,
coaxing The Moon to wane
and waxe, I host the air,
thinking about nothing,
being nothing but at least
I am free.

Karla Bardanza

Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012

1 comment:

  1. Freedom usually comes at a cost... And one of
    knowing when to bolt and cut free. Powerful! tc