The poet cave

Every word can be a dia­mond, and every word I write on this screen could be worth a weight of gold to me.

I wish it were.

Is there real­ly such a light­ness of exis­tence as peo­ple drunk with the idea of a pan­dem­ic-free sum­mer seem to think ? Every dream we con­sume is usu­al­ly paid for with real mon­ey. Of course, we are stub­born, I, too, per­sist in writ­ing in the wind. There’s a buf­foon in the Unit­ed States who thinks he’ll defeat Moth­er Nature by tak­ing his lit­tle bleach­ing pill. I wish him so much to bite into the coro­n­avirus so that he under­stands that all the wealth of the world will do noth­ing for his cal­ci­fied arter­ies. But are we rea­son­ing with a clown ? Blow­ing his cir­cus breath so much, the ele­phants he uses as dogs will end up destroy­ing his tent.

I would hate him so much, this man, and I know that he feeds off this hatred like oth­ers who pay for the mis­ery of the poor.

Every word could be a flower, but I am sad­dened by my weari­ness. I would like empires to col­lapse, I would like the strength of I no longer know which deity can over­come the arro­gance of the unre­pen­tant. If the prayer of the right­eous could be a justice…

I’m prob­a­bly just a freak, too.

I need to calm down, go back to my poet cave. I solemn­ly pray to the Ener­gies that seem to dwell with­in me. May every­thing final­ly be sort­ed out, may life con­tin­ue to be sweet­er for all, may death be a calm cycle for every­one and may each wound we feel turn into a caress of blessed love.

These are the lit­tle stones that I am toss­ing on my way tonight. I pray, I tell you.