We walk over the footsteps of the fears that have casted us. There're monsters, but we can't see them; we're suffering punishments, but we're not aware of them. We only distinguish a great desolation we long for touch it, but it's not really there. Our movements are fluent, like the aurora borealis' flashes in a pool of blood that stretch itself with tiny grains of salt flouting within it —crystalized tears drooping from the eyes squeezed by the comets which motion is cause by millions of third dimensional beings. They walk over the asphalt melted by their own thoughts. They're forsaking us! They're getting away toward the ghostly castles with thick walls made out of sepulchral madness; far away... in the dark forest of bleak foliage.
We move on blindfolded through begging symbols. There isn't any joy, except when the slimy light of the moon fall over us —it weaken us, just like the mud under the hungry jaws of the hyena. She sees things. There're goblins making fun out of her; showing her mirages that sneak away among the burning bushes of juicy rays of sun; while serving a feast in her empty stomach. Now the goblins are sleeping —dreaming with the slippery reality of all the dreams they create. Are we in the goblins' dreams? It's possible that our invisible torments spring out of a goblin's subconscious; there, where is all the reality that escaped while we were dreaming?
They've forsaken us. I've got the feeling we're in the same place of those memoirs that behold the past through a narcotic windows, while the memory itself it's absorb by its own reflection in the time's mirror. We know nothing about the things existing here, though we know that there're tombs —we feel them through the shivers that hunt us from time to time. Strange visions of moon-light over the ice; colorful shadows with black eyes; the heartbeats of a pregnant serpent reining over us. Moments in which we persist to be in chains —because at least they make us to hallucinate. Outside those moments, everything is a midnight in a wolf's mouth: a night that reach the dawn through the dark secrets of the light. Here, the best way to be alive is dying inside the tomb of those instances of necrophile vitality. They relief our present, reading the invisible images of our imagination.
Some shadows have gotten mad; they couldn't bear the faceless horrors. We can feel them fleeing from a fire that burn with bones and flesh, while telling weird stories about other lives just like us, but living in other dimensions. They feel themselves being dragging by emotional forces stronger than them. They're the weakest shadows. Indeed, there's other group that hold itself very fast to our silhouettes of intuitive outlines, but they're get overrun by the locomotive of the nothingness. Corpses without worms that devour their nonexistent putrid flesh.
More ashes over the rails that start from us toward the postures adopted by the physical bodies to avoid cast shadows. The coming of those postures is our paradise. The orthodox sages don't believe it, but those postures make us invisible within the invisibility of the hell in which we live. The most fanatic among us only laugh at it —they wonder why the terror, for the invisibility is the real paradise: our invisibility within the invisibility of the hell, mean the revelation of those images seeing by our twin lives. That idea is the new religion. The liturgy is celebrated on locomotives traveling at the speed of light, while getting through millions of opposite mirrors at the same time.
A minority of shadows, insane and rebellious, keep themselves quite still. To them, the images seeing by our physical opposites it's the hell fleeing from itself —because torments get heavier by the gravity's force: "Foolish! —they cry out— the suffering of the shadows it's lighter than that of the flesh, beside, there isn't a soul waiting its turn to be doom or save". For them, the invisible hell is the gods' one. To see nothing, mean to have seen everything. The only thing left for us to do, is to ignore the vibrations that sneak down from those twin lives.
The hell it's getting empty. The shroud of shadows it's unweaving atoms. Some shadows are very happy, playing at the feet of their twins of bones and flesh. As for me, I'm just beholding the only visible image in our hell —a locomotive getting through millions of opposite mirrors at the same time.
•Note: This prose poem belongs to the unpublished book: "Bottomless Tombs".