Dilapidated Poetry

When life becomes time consuming, you began to lose time. When time becomes life consuming, you began to lose life.

After a while, no, more than a while of experimenting on a future expedition, a couple of laptops on perpendicular tables will not do the trick for now. The dim lit wall opposite a wooden chair will not make it to the sullen walls seen only on dreams.

When the books you used to read become foreign objects floating on a far horizon, you surely miss the goal of protruding wisdom, of sensible behaviors and of a lighted candle, all in exchange of the macabre, Swiss army knife solutions of your life puzzle.

It does not take a mob to figure out that your crashing your head on the concrete pavement; it only takes a mirror and a cup of honesty. Even the youngest orphan on the block could teach you a lesson on adulthood, if you would only listen to his dreams.

I seldom see a patriarch on his knees begging for fatherhood; on the contrary it is difficult to find a warlord begging for peace.

It is just a matter of missing the keys, that’s all.