living
in a suspended box
between the sky and time
There is a suitcase full of shadows
in the corner of the room.
My living fingers slide,
over the blind sensation of my body,
between my legs.
I cry, without the power to recognise.
Now, all that was of my mother,
fills but one bag.
In this box
I am stuck to a photograph
drifting from my origin.
Neither do I begin,
nor do I end.
In the cave of my head
I turn and I turn,
Searching for names
and I am lost to myself.
It is like my own story
it is someone else&Mac226;s story.
My memories, the memories of someone else
repeated in a circular delirium.
We were all in on the game
without knowing the rules,
game, with no rules
game, with no winner.
I live on the 6th floor
in a suspended box
between the sky and time
