This seems, these seams,
Like a rapture of I
Like an acidic repose
Like a gargantuan dream colliding with my soul
Of instilling eyes not my own
Rendering sightless in such ambiances as those
Far reaching scopes undermining all that I hold
Composure and escapes intertwined
In the faith for one another
Enmeshed in rains and fires out of a cloudless sky
In July
Imagining the season is over
Not much can be done when the end has not arrived
When dissonant beauty is not entirely ready to die
Because I know no truth,
Honesty does not feel the way it once did
Words sound dull now that ideas seem unfounded
Now that ideas do not form reason in my thoughts
Time has yield, what in passing I’ve held,
As centrifugal patterns,
Conveyed of mind and desire
And seams, that seem, not to have existed at all...
Copyright © Juan Antonìo Thomas, 2005
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