From this field of thorns
I myself have made.

From wound flesh, that shared
This twisted construction I have claimed
Through sleepless nights, this caricatured mind
I have made.

What was flesh in youth, I have decayed
To this wandering skeleton
Corrupting every happiness
Embedding every emptiness.

So now what remains is this
An echo of action
Not quite alive
But grasping outside

This vessel of movements
In hopes to find
That one
Only one.

I only need one
You meek impossibility
From this boundless expression of chance
You must be at least once, one incidence.

Or is this my throne?
One of difference?
Can I claim such a blemish?
A disbalance?

No.
A whisper of the chaos comforts me
And I know you are there.
So I call you, and I beg you

From this field of thorns
Please arise, you meek impossibility.

16.VII.23