Existentialism

What would I do with all the tears I’ve shed.

God, may she have shared with me the beauty of the sky licking the mountain’s back in orange tones

My awkward, graceless walk is drawn along the thin line that binds me to painful times and by the arrogant cerulean abyss that clouds my future, already soaked in crimson.

Life does not ask permission and far less, forgiveness.

Enduring are the shadows that follow my path.

I plunge in my arm, my torso, the weariness and the shame.

At the banquet sat the magicians, with their emptied spells, the alchemists and their formulas of wayward hope…