I’ve tried to kill myself
in many furies and ranges
to drown infinitesimally
in the tiniest contemplation
somewhere finding the courage
to disappear without justifying
the senseless life I’ve led;
I’ve searched for death, afraid still
of void and thunder,
my hand – sometimes –
caresses the skin, outline, source
of an object’s beauty,
trembling uncertain
of its reality.

Sanity is a gift.

I only have the
penance of existing
in the passivity of fated
annihilation, wording
the symbol of illusion,
and nothing more.

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