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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