I walk alone in these paths of darkness
abundant in small rocks and broken glass,
that lead to no place and every place
beyond the hemispheres and imaginary lines.
And there I shall meet no destiny
nor glorious reception in praise of my name.
I walk these paths on my tired legs
every passing day more willing to collapse.
Light did once make it all colorful — alive—
but now herself exhausted, she rips
the very fabric of beauty with both her hands.
A candle has been lit; a flame now exists.
Sometimes I look out of my dirty window,
out of my somber room, out to the brilliant outside
and wonder, like often children do:
Is any part of this living canvas telling the truth?