solomon's brood

I have tried all the words I know

I have been searching on friend's faces

for that individuality that would

give me any stable certainty,

I dubbed it with the sounds that

were available to my chameleon senses

feelings, reality, imagination, love,

they all stained for the time before

I faded in a new mandala of necessity,

constantly reformed, I am my surroundings,

but I hear in them asking for identities

and I cannot reply with the same

illusions they begged me to intone

for I do not hold anything to remain

severed from its changes as I make it.

and I did not find any form

that would not turn in time

to threaten the sentences

with which I pronounced their uses.

feelings are always already only past

yet the permanency in them dreamed

is felt anew for a hope that will reconcile

the desires with their conquered decay,

loneliness demands love to be shared

lovers seek loneliness to sustain them

and all that I have seen on lovers lips

was the corroding rooting fangs

of their dreams spreading venom,

reality is in the unfulfilled imagination

that is yet to be found in reality,

striving toward a moment of bliss

that could close outside illusions,

as reality is always left insufficient

till imagination rescues its suspension,

love has always remained to be

heard in any popular mind with the

wisdom of the ancients still to be

mastered. there is not love that is not

in the waiting obsession of being saved

from goodbyes.

                               and if I talk with you of love

if you hear me say the words

I love you_is because I do not know

what else nature's care has set us

to whisper together in her grasp,

not ours, for we remain the servants

of an indifferent power that will

sustain every metamorphosis

with its own chords and design

for us to interfere but not to control.

it cannot be love that will save us,

for when I speak of love I speak

of the lovers in all the loves gone

that have marked in my heart

scars I cannot sooth without

the faith that they had strummed me

with stronger vision of kindness not lost

in the cruel realization of the act.

will I ever be able to use pictures for you

that will give to words a meaning

beyond the exclusion of places and faces,

once felt and never visited,

or regretted anew

in the realization their visiting brought?

no love but insecurities is what

allows us to record the felt feelings

and with them we can hope to achieve

the moments of dreamed conquest,

when all that has been happening

has released its deserved indifference.

so let your insecurities run to me

and stop asking for anything more

from this moment that makes you

vulnerable and unstable in the

knowledge you wanted to build

your mask of certainty with.

draw toward me as you live worries

that my voice stirs in your veins

flowing in the borning repetition of life

matured in the vision of feeling its end;

life is the echo of our strives to forge it;

but what is the need for fixing a life

beside any? why interrupting its own coming?

draw toward me as you cherish

these insecurities that I awake

with all the clarity that will resume you

from seeing me only to perceiving

someone reviving behind me.

rejoice to be able to find and have refound endlessly

the loss of what was sought not only once

to be breathed anew in the gone opportunity

of hoping it's future possible possession

when insecurities have led us to be rejoined

with nothing more than what we only know

and we will finally have nothing more to search to live for