To give reality a shape, we construct thoughts,
but thoughts, as real as they may be, can drift away,
and what is real, soon looses ground and base.
As doves, say white ones just to make it nicer, they fly
through open windows of our minds. They can not stay.
Where do those thoughts assemble, those we forgot to keep?
They only come again, disguised in dreams,
in different colours, stories, fragments,
screaming birds that catch up in our sleep.
I wonder in the labyrinth of past
through shaded lanes of staring facts and lies
reminding me of all who didn’t last,
still frightened of the secrets in their eyes.
Life goes too fast, so say the echo’s cries,
and damn the weariness in their voices,
knowing I stand between the lies,
demonic ruins of fatal choices.
In the labyrinth are useful noises
that keep me motivated for this phase.
As no brave dragon slayer rejoices,
alone I’ll find the exit of my maze.