A Barricade

 Now there is silence; convincing, dense.

A roadblock of dread: anxieties on what’s to come fueled by wrongs of times past. Next to the lumpy heap on sunless asphalt rests actuality and its plain might flees our naked eyes.

A playback of thoughts doesn’t still. Time drips like wax on flame.

Adrift in wakeful ages, I can’t locate the exit from the state of stand-by. Again and again, providence mulls if past our barricade awaits a second chance.

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the blank page

in the light of a new day, I stepped
out of those relentless gray whispers
soaked with futility and doubts, and welcomed
the weave and smell of a clear page.

it was so long since the last chapter had begun;
the one who started it looks foreign, out of place.
the same handwriting perseveres to inhabit
yet another tale of continuation, survival, change.

circles and destinies mash together, making
as little and as much sense as imagination unfurls.
our books are perfected patterns, too swift for
one-legged grasp, running free in fields of chance.

in the newborn light I greeted the dripping ink:
lot’s sticky fingers led my hand to pour out
a hopeful phrase. paragraphs away from brand new scrapes
I drew in, with vigor, smells of fresh commence.

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On emotional banking

He steers away from heartbreak as if they have nothing to say to one another. Dozens of folders with snaps of his daily life depict his heart’s time-out: in them, he giggles, grooves, and exists.

In pursuit of positive thoughts and ceaseless triumphs, he proclaims his life a pain-free zone. As entire generations kneel before emotional buffers, most are oblivious to his cheerful numbness.

The planet journeys on, stumbling under the weight of selfies. Artificial intelligence is no longer a future away; each step of self-rejection brings him closer to his android possessions. Blinded by infinite filter options, he just keeps simpering…

Click?

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The countdown

Waiting, I hang out with desires and fantasies.
Waiting, I wear the crown of dreams.
It contains the perfect me.

Anticipation hides –
so they say –
every joy’s best part.

I oppose, for I know it’s all a trim:
dreams bear no anchor.
Blood gushes through trials, cycles that are complete.

Waiting, I role-play with my sheeny crown
keeping my muses close
and their plots afar.

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behind secrets

things we hide from ourselves
conflicts emanated that remain
safely placed behind our vivid blinders

while living inventions that please
our idea of the world
of mythical boundaries

never leaving our side, battered,
the truths we ignore hold on and murmur
invites to inherent freedom

we go on without detecting
the scope, the expense of self-denial
clutching the shadow of the control panel

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Ignorance is made of politeness

In the realm of hierarchy people naturally accept their place, simply because it was there before the dawn of time.

The beneficiaries ignore that which doesn’t belong on their rack and, every so often, desirously look at silent behinds of those they deem superior. On occasion, displaying a chilly smile, they pass on handfuls of bank notes to those who are a class below.

As heavens carry true and false yells for change, most beneficiaries couldn’t survive knowing that people are just people. Less than an inch away sits the change, tragically patient, for that eye contact between the classes never comes.

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