Boxed in...

The roof upon my head, which covers my whole being,
is not made by wood or glass or concrete…

It’s made by seven broken wings
from seven buried angels.
From up, their blood flows down
and swallows pieces of flesh of pain.

Dust from their empty wounds
is raised up by the wind of faith.

Beneath my legs I feel a piece of chalk which trembles –
beneath it, a round dark floor of solitude.

It’s made by twelve cruel tongues
and each time I touch them
I get elder with one more year,
revealing my skin films falling…

The spoon that feeds them was rotating,
wanting to make a anti-matter cone.

My bed was packed in splendor: the ocean;
and I was sitting on thousands of jelly-fishes.

It’s made by three sweet needles.
With anger, I was stabbed by myself.
Like a mad dog, my mouth
got filled with white foam…

Sitting paralyzed between roof and floor
I saw the walls starring at me like a maiden.

They are made by one mirror!
Showing some different faces of a guy
without skin, without legs,
without head.

I, in the center of my universe,
got vanished and burned all beyond.

There is no God, no evil;
but you could smell:
wet silky ashes made by tiny pieces of essence!