In the methexis and the vertigo of imagination.

 

Rotations around curvature

of the soul.

At the point where wax melts from the face of fire.

There I strip them of my soul

uncertainties.

When the gray of the afternoon

it brings the memory of the brief transition

in the delicacy of a rare moment.

A violin concerto for one hand

between the folds of sighs

of the sick.

A winged ghost that

seals the pores of time.

An amethyst stone far and wide

from the infinite mists

of the ocean sea.

There in the methexis and the vertigo of imagination

I ended up seeing

a sunrise

for the whole orchestra,

while the story was lost

with the fine texture

of blooming lilies.

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