The impossible search of absolute

A heavy train of thought,

overcrowded, a smell of mould

trailing behind my shoulder.

When it stops, it always does

in vast lonesome deserts,

where the wind hisses only as a reminder of time –

carrying frustrated, intoxicated screams

of the loud passenger crowd from the past

down a horizon of absolute nothingness.


I stand tied in chains of words

that twirl around my body;

they root me inside this train,

inside steamed desire and coal-burning fear.


I cannot find the chords

to sing for her. I want to worship her

with chimes. Alas, she sleeps soundly now

in one of the carriages, the only passenger left –

Hope rests in the calm, while I wait

for the train to fill with turbulent impossibilities

to be burnt along this journey ever-circling

around my absolutely inanimate fate.


I wait for the noise to evaporate

in the distance, for fresh sobriety

to board the train, to start the engines

before she awakes. Yes, she will swirl

the compass to another dry desert,

in my words’ own integrity

she will trap me again. Before too long…


Hope – delusional, lucid and luminous

in a cold desert night. Only the wind

still hissing with human possessions.

A naked poet, stripped of the right to search for it,

I remain her slave, in absolute hope and faith.


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