The Crack Burns to Prove Itself

The crack burns to prove itself

Ghostly fibers
hang from my thoughts,
scraps of the only canvas,
which dissolves into an empty trace.
Ephemeral photograph
suspended in the skies,
it fades away the last
twenty-four hours.
The hands of the clock
laid bare in
autumns and springs,
warmth and melancholy.
Longings of the burning summer
and the winter that freezes
the sighs of passion.
I cling to promises,
nostalgia
catches the notes of the year.
The thunder in the storm may take fright,
the river may drown in its own bed,

the echo may come undone upon the mountain,
the dawn may lose itself in its own blind spot.
Though the mind is born free
little by little it grows tainted:
intricate parameters,
that cloud the gaze.
It dresses in forced smiles
and accepts new boycotts every day,
while the heart doesn't understand
that dichotomy that hurts.
It fears what they'll say,
it shields itself from ridicule
with its perfect logic,
it procrastinates.
what the pulse burns to try.
Oblivious to the world
the impulse of life is born;
more than a cold mechanism,
it beats along paths
that reason cannot reach.