Corridors fracture in creation’s realm,
Meaning morphs, and echoes overwhelm,
Sculpted poetries from shards of space and time,
Delirious diversion, a rhythm not in rhyme.
Metaphors shatter, like crystals on concrete,
In the twirling point, where chaos and order meet.
In the harmonic whispers of the fragmented thought,
Old deities emerge, in ambiguity sought.
Electric lights of words on canvases of void,
Creators, wanderers, in regions destroyed.
No linear path, no prescribed design,
Pathetic parts of meaning, entangled, intertwined.
I wield my blackened thought, a deconstructed sword,
Carving significance from conflict; it’s absurd.
Symbols expand, their meanings come unbound,
In the kaleidoscope of havoc, actuality is found.
But in this process of this eternal start,
I beg for satisfaction, tearing my soul apart.
All pain inflicted upon this body must be art,
A pact with the unknown, an ageless restart.
Each ache, a stroke; each tear, a verse,
The poet’s curse, a blessing so perverse.
In vessels of conception, suffering finds release,
Communion with daemons, where wounds and craft increase.
So, I bleed upon the parchment, an offering sublime,
For in the creative function, pain transcends all time.
Wounds turn to sentences, tearing my mind apart,
For in this expiring psyche, all pain must become art.
Τριχώδης Αλβεάριος 