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My poetry. My wishes. My vision. My hopes and dream. My love. My silence. My unwanted solitude. My heart.

My scattered realities and my complete imagination. Through the cracks of the former I grasp glimpses of the latter. On the quiet separated isles of those floating parts I sit, in the dark, looking over the black water at the half-open shadow door.

Stream of black blood of loneliness flowing from underneath me, forming my shadow, down into the water under my empty soles.

My closed eyelids and opened eyes. My scarred face. My quiet frozen fire of soul.

My fallen tears and my opened chest. My blindness. My anger. My sore forehead. The open gate of my brows. The river of sorrow.

My waiting. My salvation. My ennui. My swinging legs. My confused eyes. My empty mouth. My calm black pupils. My empty gaze.

The bridge being built above the surging flood. My naked feet. My tired toes. My wrinkled sole. My empty fingers. My longing palms. My yet unechoed song.

My light. My reignition. My arrival. The bottom of my gaze. The terminus of the river. The faint strength in my fingers. The overlap of my void physicality and the illusory unknown.