I, Skipper Of Communion*
I am not sure, if
Neruda did ask the birds
how to fly and curbed the sky
with his tutored hands,
so poetic like swallows.
This, true or not– still, I’d thought
for years about it –
doing the same, oh asking
the birds how to fly, for me
to conquer the sky!
And I did, but my wings were
being pinned down by prowlers
and they keeled my strength
with nicotine of lust that
I, skipper of communion,
became like a dust
that never moves from its place,
unless the cold wind blows it.
I found no glory
and triumph seeing myself
in the vicious pangs of such
harsh reality,
but in my dreams within dreams
I oft lay my bare body
on the bed of trust,
listening to the music
of my gaped fingers, as I
wait for you, dear God,
to come out from the tip of
my pen, to dance with my soul.
* XXV PREMIO INTERNAZIONALE DI POESIA NOSSIDE 2009 MENZIONATI
