How is one allowed to write the diary
of a sensible man?
The inner eye rarely opens
towards the fragile moments of our distress
and words will never survive our thoughts
beyond the daily wounds.
If anyone is ever allowed
to write about pain without the disguise of serenity,
if one is battling the eyelids of his inner strife,
if the pages of his diary can ever be filled with her…
if she could hear him… What of bliss?
She enters his dreams
she stands alone
frozen birds are piled on a cart made of red feathers,
and the ground is of salt and raw fear…
she stops inside a room filled with yellow balloons
and old instruments… he wakes up.
The wild flowers are well-pressed now
between the full-filled pages of his diary
the background music calls on the desert sand to pour itself in.
Nobody should ever be allowed to write the diary of a sensible man.
Or to tell.
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