If I could do something
with this mess inside
do something similar to what snow
does to the argentine sky
constellating it with the falling
flakes of a weeping
chaos

I would be swarming
with zigzags of pleasure
and pain
collapsing under the weight
of
chance

then whatever remains
would melt
find the lowest cavity
of my dirty soul
and stagnate,
quietly
so quietly
dying
down

there.

 

poems