The Cage of Dreams

I burn the insignificant sheets
of light and darkness that seem printed in blood.
Stains of ink remaining
even ripped from the word to which they were rooted.

I seek beauty as a way to dodge the clouds
of darkness that reduce hopes to ashes.
I run away from the bleakness that, with
their makeup of torment, tries to calcine my deepest dreams.

Photographs of ghosts that vanish
in a stream of withered stars.
Light strokes that seek to be breathed
but die in amnesia.

I still get the sweet smell of nostalgia
that in a loop of tears rides into a tomorrow
that rises from the inexpressive remains of dawn,
trying to find a chink of agonizing light.

But the only thing that leaves my lips is words,
corrupt meaningless words that
like needles devoid of a fate, walk
into an empty sea of commiseration.

I incinerate a letter in a bottle,
I look around me, but I see nothing but a mask
covered by gestures that try to hide the reality:
The monotony of this empty street.