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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.

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