poetry, Syllable Tapestries


Masks offer themselves to me:
maybes, possibilities, uncertainties and almosts.
Beneath I feel them,
their taste,
though bitter,
is almost satisfying;
however, the gracefulness leads to turbulent underneaths.

Where does it fall?
Mas o minos yes?
or Mas o minos no?
Does it hope to renew the center,
embracing itself from afar?

Maybes and Possibilities frighten me.
Too vast a project.
Too big a bite for the heart’s mouth.
& the sauce?
In its simple and tragic depth,
it makes me ashamed I even asked.
No matter how pious I felt the objective was.

Don’t mock me.
My heart is sad, but sound.
If I might speak,
in-between my fidgeting,
gently evading the waters of slow refusal.
Murmurs, as the wheel,
dissolve into themselves.

Let me marvel,
dazzled by your beauty,
the white energy which flows between words
ignorance or immaculate imperfection;
to awaken from a long sleep
upon my wings,
climbing up into the sky,
despite the storm.

or gentle refusal?
I don’t know.
It is one of those pure oblivious gestures.

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