Reversed

On the door it says what to do to survive

But we were not born to survive
Only to live

- W.S. Merwin

There is a call,

voices, the shadow of

these unreal forms of memory

to whom we surrender.

And we name each solitude

according to its time, but

our only certainty exists

in the illusions we hold.

No one dares to speak

of the distance

that lies between a poem

and its reality.

And so come these nights

haunting all those who care

to prickle through words

and seek for an answer.

Nothing is a thing,
indeed.