Masks offer themselves to us:

maybes, possibilities, uncertainties and almosts.

Beneath we feel them,

their taste,

though bitter,

is almost satisfying;

however, the gracefulness lends 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.

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