Decilio Lago
 
 

SPIDERWEBS
 
 
 
 

The purple smeared blue horizon behind
the breathing hill,
spatially divided by a wavy mute fence.
Each luminous rectangle
between a decaying, dark post
is an accusation.

I cannot apologize to myself
because I twisted love
into an angel's unreal body.

I injured my life.
I'm the only one who knows.
I'll forgive myself,
release sorrow so it can play card games,
wear the latest, fashionable clothes.
Each to his own.

We grow by unfamiliarity with ourselves.
I was stunted by knowledge.
When we put aside out self portraiture,
we find miracles in garages,
the spiderwebs spun by our lives.
 
 
 
 
 
 

WORDS
 
 
 
 

Words are
smoke screens,
blurring
out realities--
spoken as plumage,
as weapons;
but ineffectual,
since substituted or not heard.

The distant fires sending out the smoke
singe the speaker's skin.