In my house of mirrors,
there are rooms that never ever touch,
and the silver catches what I am not,
and I look and look wondering
until the fever breaks.

The rooms collapse into doorways opening
always into other rooms that are not
what they seem, as the tongue builds,
the tongue that makes and unmakes,
each word a brick that crumbles as it’s laid.

I speak in borrowed robes until the
seam is broken. What am I wearing?
The masquerade continues.
The architecture forms.
I am the house. The shadow. The parade.

Every well is dry, water held in
absence. Thirst deepens as the bucket falls,
as the rope unravels. It is here where I die
or live, as the thirst for water calls
from thirst towards survival in existence.

 

20/8/2025