PSALMS © 2008
You are a Christ of Christ, or you believe you are,
A reflection shaped in the trace of His face,
The continuous line that runs without haste, without feet,
Towards the point where the infinite meets the opposite.
An agony disguised as routine,
Pretending to be something else, light, genuine.
But deep down, you are what you write without knowing,
A record of yourself, a letter fading away.
The link is sought, the word that does not reveal itself,
The missing sound to unite what the heart forgot.
And in the illusion of pretension, the soul unveils
What it always knew: what was lost, perhaps, was never lost.