You say you got no time to hear my elaborate story
and I'm wandering,
wondering,
if the tale were about me
would I be scared of my own auto-biography?
Smoldering silently behind closed doors like the lone surviving ember that hides
beneath the ash for days
contemplating what last heat I have left to unleash
now that my story’s been spied by every foreign ear
now that the world parades my secrets through the streets
in a transparent sarcophagus.

If you told them
where to find my soul when its not inside me
they would throw their thorny nets about its thin meditating layers
and train it to shit indoors.

I entrust you with that prescious map
the diagram of my heart unknown
hide it even from me
for at times, I would burn it for awakening me to that cold, vital universe
that persists beyond my control.