Bridge
more tired than anytime,
unable to excuse his hate,
he stood at the vertical crossroads,
and uncaged the demons that tormented him,
for no other reason than the curse of his conscience:
the paradox of a love that faltered
in the grip of its own pain.
the illusion was good,
the pleasure of wolves,
vanity’s masquerade.
but the truth, it was rabbits.
and rabbits, it was true,
existed because their ancestors
sometimes dodged jaws.
the people he saw
did not know what they were.
they had forgotten if they were base.
they had forgotten if they had trapped themselves
without intending to dig a pit.
especially he couldn’t trust
the most convincing smiles.
monsters swore they did nothing wrong,
such as the one who befriended him
and raped and raped and raped.
the wealthy raped the poor, the Earth,
and whatever else they could
while praising each other
for their generous and wonderful hearts.
beauty was precious,
but liars stole the light,
and used it to lead the innocent,
because, because, because
no one wanted to raise their voice,
more than they wanted safety from the cold.
only a few angels had the will
to look and see how corrupted it all was,
the gilded glow of glamourous towers,
and not jump.
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