Three tiny suspension points
Keep me hanging from a finger
From my desk.
The text was succint
and the short sentence closed
By a point
But i cannot find the real meaning
That those carefully chosen words
Even this tiny mirror
Can entrap my pride
When choosing what to do
And, this way, be.
Like milestones on the long road,
It will return me the truth
Regularly and unasked.
My blood rushes and my lips distend
At the thought of new chapter.
Few pages are created naïve,
Blank and open.
Sentences drop like rice grains
Leaving tiny marks
Just let it happen and distance yourself
By flying to the coming singer
And exploring for the perfect Christmas present
Whole they all waste words.
Nod and consider
W what is really important to you
And take notes
To plan your short but dense free time
And your next knitting project.
On a foot I cruise the lab,
Walking sideways in a diagonal,
I reach my high desk.
I stretch my neck to discover the documents,
Hiding silent in the back,
While the others follow me
with their eyes filled of water.
My story is apparent
On the skin of my willing hands
And on the edges of my smiling mouth.
I have written thousands of sentences,
Yet none is enough
The arrival home
Is a proper for the intense day
As the boiling stew expects
a smile and a daily achievement.
The day closes sweet and homey
After hours in the artificial world
That takes your breath away.