I know what is it to feel.
For no lack of conditioning, in this nest wondering.
Where time has gone.
(Someplace other.)
Where the breath of angels
taking shape,
in folded origami.
That colorless map -
of a coded world,
not made up dreams.
This little faith I have.
Such a small sense of irony that won't fit into a wording all my own.
To understand it all.
For lack of purpose in everything.
It stems from the nest (above) in this dark poetry.
The first verse: I know.
Just not the ending.
- Marco
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