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Poem

For Better, for Worse

Deep melancholy in solitude dwells,
Why is it health’s contradiction as well?
Why, when I try to feel what still aches,
Does it wake and then vanish on walks that it takes?

Lost on a road to horizons unknown,
I found myself midway between them, alone.
One of them lives in us all, deep inside,
And through man, in silence, is mirrored outside.

What is, in fact, intriguing in structure
Is how consciousness acts in the picture.
Around it, the inside becomes outside here,
And suddenly, outside, a violin we hear.

A violin emotive, melodious and fair,
But also the fact that nobody cares.
But who is this Nobody? Who could he be?
And why must the fool of the group still be he?

Three over two, or perhaps over three,
Or perhaps none at all, if you want it to be.
I had better not even attempt anything,
And escape from remaining enclosed in the ring.

The circle itself is entirely round,
But we are unbounded, no limits are found.
This too may as well be no more than a thought,
And we are, well, really quite tired. A lot.

In the end, I finally understood.
Understanding felt it, then left while it could.
From the silence between voices trembling with fear,
A superhero, born from a street boy, appears.