There is an existential book
to be written
where the soul buries its life.
A carousel of words,
a thumping heartbeat
concluded in the silence
of the end.
But there is a way out of a
scribbled life.
Repetition.
Bad dreams that don’t frighten
anymore,
just make me sick.
The way out is to never repeat,
love,
the song not meant to be heard again,
the encounter with my shadow,
where time no longer keeps itself.
Then, in the end of chapters,
the end becomes prologue of itself.
And the beautiful wakes up.
Demands a piece of me
each time it’s used,
until there is a true end
and beginning to things.
A right conclusion,
never to be repeated.