Still life

Painting by Denise Serra

I have seen him barefoot with a stick in his hands,

drawing enigmas on the ground

as the sand listens to his unreachable mind

every single day.


He speaks the language of the half-eaten winged angels.

I can’t understand his forgotten words, the imprisoned artist in him.


The poet in me wanders whenever he sits in the park,

showing me a new definition of existence as if

I somehow could be different from him

when I protect my dreams from my mouth and imagination.


But in the corners of my doubts,

poems die of agony and madness.


I know nothing about him

just what the sands allowed me to see

and what I have seen is not enough

to comprehend a human being

under the stillness of the sun.


Karla Bardanza

Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012

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