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