So absurd - Original poem

zeleiracordero (67)in #poetry • 8 years ago (edited)

So absurd

Original poem

Logic?

From his heaven he dreams of a world beyond the sky.
The ceiling is too close
and it does not allow you to lift your head.
Feel that each movement steals a breath
of accumulated life.
Stays still and contemplates, stealthy
the stampede of their little monsters.

And see them.
Tiny, like small octopuses stopped.
And think: who is watching who?
Try to discover his eyes
and can not blink
and each layer of the cornea dried up
and he cries, he does not want to, but he cries.
They take advantage of the fog in their eyes
to jump on its essence.

One liar recognizes another

Weakened, he falls asleep.
It's better to sleep.
He is too tired.
He dreams. He wakes up.
He does not remember what he dreamed.
He looks at the ceiling and the roof descends.
Feel the weight of heaven on the soul
and when the universe contracts, he expands
Walk, walk, walk.
He looks beyond the horizon,
beyond, where there must be something
and try to find it.

So absurd

It looks absurd in the face of its own absurdity
and that of the universe that inhabits.
Extinguishing in routine, reborn
in this simulation of reality
where the only real thing is absurd.
Alone, with his vigilant conscience,
resume the step without regret,
but also without faith in its final awakening.

The rest, numb your spirit.
He puts on the clothes of reason
and continues his way despite seeing
the remnants of masks on the floor,
the makeup-free faces exposing
the hidden, the insane,
the abject, the illogical.

Who is the scammer?

Intuition strips the pretentious centuries
and the blind reason,
keep cheating mercilessly.
Enthroning hypocrisy of human comedy
that does not finish lowering the curtain.
The actors and the public
They use interchangeable masks,
adopting the worn everyday poses.
immortalizing hypocrisy outside the theater.
Small and large cling to their masks.
Fiction has become reality or the opposite.
Glorifying the egomania:
"I am who I am",
invoking old rains
with the smell of spent incense.
Blindness looks in the mirror,
seduced and induced
by the spiders that weave incessantly
the threads that hold
the world in its place.

The paradox

How do you forget about the wound if the contour
is it still dyed red?
The uselessness of guilt is useless.
What matters now is not thirst
of flavors, only the salt that shakes,
It is not the spark that proves a new fire,
only the flame that burns the sky.

"I am who I am",
without forgetting that you are also
who you are,
in the exact measure
in which all
They can be, who are:
The paradox remains active

Can he create something absolutely perfect, something imperfect?