I am the humble man of your virtue.
I am the fire from within.
I am me
waiting for you to recognize me,
in everything that is truly us.
I am drowning while I am ascending.
I am a prince while I am a pauper.
I am the loneliness itself that convenes every togetherness.
I am fortitude in the longitudes of all these paths.
I am a sculpture that is getting sanded
in these trails that are paved
from the assaults of all these destinations,
these walks.
I am a bumpy road of self
which is getting paved against all these eroding shoes,
a boulder, scratching, wrinkling, fractioning, triturating,
holding onto its very solid intent of malleability:
inclining
to be sands rather than rocks,
liquid, rather than hulking solid,
fumes, rather than liquid,
