time has no memory

yet i strive

to imprint my momentum

to swerve its indifference

that stings like a wasp

disturbed by my steps

in the darkening shrubs

seized in the buzzing of its

distancing wings augmenting

the light on emerald stairs

leaving me with the dull pain

of coursing understanding

for recovering what has changed

on restless limbs to be framed

in the burying rest of the hourglass.

the questions that i enquiry for

are writings on water

disarticulated syllables

that i order to find no reflection

in nature's impermanent mirror;

from which depths

have the silences that replies

been gurgling effortlessly

for no cave to be hidden?

there is no depth_nowhere

where the minotaur's rage rests

awaiting to breath in the senses

the earth's intestinal secrets

of dedalian recovered reason.

everything is in plain feeling

spreading its revealing veil

where the sting hides,

the breath inflames,

and the reverberating caves

where answer and questions

circulate aimlessly in convalescence,

are lived in the sand maddening rats race

among the skin labyrinthic reasoning.