It is possible that my mental rhythm

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It is possible that my mental rhythm,
is not so musical,
whispering in the shadows,
an echo of what I didn't see.

I would like the letters to dance
like leaves in a subtle wind,
words intertwined,
baring a feverish silence.

I write what my dead eye saw,
a mirror broken into a thousand fragments,
a labyrinth of shadows and lights,
with verses searching for their foundations.

How I wish they could agree
in what the soul feels and sees,
parallel realities,
a game of mirrors, perhaps.