I’m sitting here

{on this thorny chair}

reading Neruda

and Bukowski,

actually no,

I’m not reading

{I tried and got tired of it}

but I am listening to Lana Del Rey,

to her dripping voice

{so wet, so embellished}

while I also write

and think.

But none of that matters

{I don’t write to talk about such things}

what I want to say is this:

I’m afraid

{I feel this fear deep inside}

it unrolls on my conscience

as waves of pungent stone,

cold stone,

{as darkened snow

over that mountain, over my soul}.

I feel this fear

{that one that nearly seduces you}

that fear made of a warm mirror

{that melts and spills}

that is thick

and speaks to you.

I am afraid

but I’m still here

{I still breathe and beat}

and I read Neruda,  Bukowski,

{I listen to Lana}

and I write

{I write it with a pen

and ink}

with a lively hand,

a hand that sees everything

{almost all}

but that has not seen fear.