The White Worm

The need of an easy drug that leads me into your thoughts in the dark to see them shine is leaving my soul. Sacrificed the white worm brings into life my deepest dream for which this sonnet begins. The one venerable and desirable feeling for which I had been feeding is lacking in itself.  Love is hurt, is bleeding wasted hopes, is breathing poisonous words of loneliness and is surrounded by its most terrible foe: the void. Its screams are virtually imperceptible. It needs to escape but it doesn´t want to because now it depends on the tender taste of pain. But it is not the end.

Like the yellowish liquid of an old perfume that has been abandoned, love has no purpose to attain. Actually, it is alone in a tubular world, where colours are not and the essence has gone. Its melted regrets become a river of bitter memories that have no end. Maybe it is not good enough. Perhaps it doesn´t deserve to live at all.

Unspoken fears, which are well nourished by the smudged croon, stare into space to its fate. While love´s faith is devoured by an angel with shiny broken wings, its breath is drought by a cruel sense of hate.

Love is perishing and it swallows stars dust that suffocates its spirit. “You don´t have to give up if you don´t want to” its wraith of a voice pronounce the pale words. Its eyes are closing; the last sunbeam penetrates his soul because it needs to live no more.

6^th December 2010.