poet or priest, dark or night
to shine or to run from one
self
expelling time or
shunning the unknown
zoo of worries or mocking my mother
and chasing
her secret lover
playing Shakespeare with my little brother
or realising the truth when no
one is watching
leaving the end of a newborn beginning
behind or just existing in the remnants of
unimportant things
converting sand into wine and being
the fool of the handwriter’s lies
or
breaking my neck over a sofisticated look
that from behind the curtains lurks