Just words

We are the stuff dreams dream on,

we are undreamt dreams,

waiting to be dreamt

 -and thus, quickly forgotten-

by a little waking stone,

 in the midst of what remains of a lost sea.

We are the unshed tears of widows to be,

fictional fears for unexisting,

unsung,

losses.

Coins shed into a bottomless well

while the authors of our fall will remain

-for eternities-

waiting for the sound 

of an impact 

which will never come.

We are the sad moments of the Cheshire cat,

the sober thoughts of Leopold Bloom,

Odysseus lost compass,

bombs full of roses, waiting to fall on phantom cities.

We are images

-poweful or not-,

voices

-eversounding or silent-,

dreams of dreams

-awaken or dead-,

that uncomprehended beauty which makes us cry,

the unsung question,

the drums beaten on ragged human skin by the stumps of the unborn,

the rage of the innocent condemned to never be born

-and nevertheless, bearing eternal witness to the decadence of this race-.

Poisonous balm,

sweet tears edulcorating the primal milk,

tame Leviathans

.

..

...

(Just words, never to be read)