I Am a Palimpsest of Millions

Some afternoons

My mind’s cooky

And the heart is a sold reed

To beat for my body

But my eyes need to breathe

And my soul’s still here

***

I need to feel to live

To perceive to exist

Though I need some consolations

From an ancient soul

***

Written words are then saviors

Bookshelves are but adventures

They wake me up

From my internal death

And my sleepy heart

Which sometimes barely swims in a nightmare

Dives in a spongy bed

As my eyes fall in a restful hand

***

Though my life is yet creepy

Somedays I need

No other smiles

But the ones coming from the zigzagged words

Climbing up and running down a gorgeous page

Staggering from side to side of a precious sheet

Those moments my heart sleeps sweetly

In an ancient soul’s hand

***

Words are always there for me

When I lack desire

When my thought’s wild

And my destiny’s foggy

***

They have me imagine

Life and future

Love and passion

Past and wisdom

And me in thousand faces

Hold as hell by an ancient’s hand

***

It is but adventurous

Having the voices of my head

Brainstorming for a while

While my mind can’t decide

Who I am

While reading these words

Am I a palimpsest of millions?

Am I just one of these words?

***

It is even more adventurous

Watching a character evolving

When I conjure up fantastic scenarios

In my eyes then my mind

My heart throbs hard

As if it were me

Incarnating millions of lives

In the ancient hand

***

Somedays I wish I were just a character

I wish I inhabited someone’s book

And evolved quick

But lasted forever

I wish I were one of the most famous

And went to adventures

Even after my original story ended

***

I wish I could be transferred to other books

Reincarnating as Don Quixote

But live my life in a palace

As if I were just an ancient

***

I am not sure I am a character

But I love their adventures

I travel on a plume near them

As I see their names on some books’ wings

I thought I were one of them

***

As a palimpsest of thousands

I owe them

Because they are more than thousand friends

And they hold me always

As their names are being written in this perpetual hand