Treasure Island

RIC S. BASTASA


10: 49 P.M. And Undefinite With What To Write


there is this sickness that compels me to write. There is this nausea that makes me
capture the words.
There is this pain that opens me up
to images

all images that soon appear like shadows of birds on the side of a hill
above
the full moon.

there is this void that behaves like a big mouth but cannot speak.
there is this silence that dignifies
my loneliness.

It is like an old woman waiting for no one by the stairs facing the dusty road in an old country.

i have these eyes that look for nothing like a dead man staring without feeling what lies there in front of those who scrutinize an event.

there is this trembling of the flesh in the arms while facing the monitor inside a closed room.

there is this peace in exhaustion.
there is this knowledge of a dead end and there are no cars there.
No doors but only walls.

there is this walk without a definite direction.
there is this purpose that you cannot describe.

there are lots of lost meanings that slip from our tongues and which we cannot
utter.

there is this game of boredom where we are all losers.
there is this acceptance without question because there is nothing worth
asking anymore.

after all these years
when we age and we do not care.

Submitted: Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Edited: Friday, June 28, 2013

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