The feasibility of him actually knowing his bittersweet touch on my mind is trivial
grand masonry wonders
extravagant staircases to nothingness
densely overpopulated with a deadly mix of optimism and desolation
rather than new ideas and machinery.
He saw through me like the stained glass windows of Santa Croce
through the colored panes and blurred lines of my humanity
all the way to the pounding of my heart.
How could one break apart the hand painted walls that I have spent years constructing?
How is it possible that even at my strongest parts
I can now see the crumbles settling in a pile of dust and debris at my feet?
I imagine by now
I would have been buried deep in the brokenness of demolished chapels
struggling to keep myself from losing sight once again.
And here I am
standing on the earth
cold and aching from stressing weight over all of my entity
saved.
