The silence is not calm.
My head is a load of chronic noise.
Images of broken mirrors, of dull colors,
a savage burden to the blood and bones.
Where something turns into nothing,
a crude transformation in the circle.
Slowly I escape from the marathon,
from the task that is inexorable.
The movement is stuck, clasped from
woods of dark and the unseen.
Intolerance is not shy.
Lies are heard and manifested.
I am the aching voice, the proof
that grief is not a friend.