Folded page

November 25th 2017

Colorless serenity
like the noise of the troubled city
like the deep slumber.
The same fear thrives
under the seemingly divided worlds.
Standing in front of a mirror
we keep pressing more and more firmly
the same fabric on our eyes.

Without the seed of passion
imagination gives birth to delusions
and every figment of it is nothing but a personal death
at the altar of a redeeming exegesis.

Whatever resists is the essence.
Everything that emerges will shape a curved wrinkle
on your wet fingerprint.
You'll find yourself
in the midst of storms you are chasing with blasphemous thirst
in the frozen air that smells suspense
in the sorrow that weighs down your feet like mud
and in the bloodstains of a newborn dawn.

The intellect here kneels down silently.
Ideas scream at the sight of the unbearable truth.

This book counts as many pages as our breaths.
It is being written and rewritten every night.
And the fight is in vain
but also enchanting
as the nostalgia of a folded page,
where two worlds embrace for a moment.

                                                                                  Angelos Didachos