You enter me like birds with a sonar song to strong to blur.

Your melancholy cage full of soul suffices flew free with fragmented flair to detect.

This flock of ink does not fizzle the fire that singes the feather that the masses may mock.

You are the gusto of tragedy; the one that falls with me into the sea salt stench of waves.

On fire, what anchors me in ruins within the spume of sweat from lives past, adores you adorned with colors, or bare with nothing; whole or broken.

Is the suffocation of what cannot be dismissed played out in a fervent dig?

Was the blood from the agony of the roots that coil my heart a familiar taste to your lips?

A maze of rhetoric does not deter, and you made it here to the fallacy of what lives, and dies within me.

How the sun sets already chiseled by my cold hands.

Why do you bring me a light that blinds my sorrow to believe in happiness?

Why won’t you run from my moonlit gaping graves that meddle with me?...

 

This evening and so forth I confess ,hesitantly, that I am glad.

This evening and so forth; I confess something lives.

 

               © Mimi Caneda Mata