Cryptic

I will be the apostle of light as long as I live. I’m not so sure about that, even if it’s my desire. I will also accept the bloody hands of the shadows, sculptors of the eternal splendors that slip through our fingers. I am a Don Quixote of cliff words, temperate waters. Many ships populate my lagoon oceans.

I am a prisoner of my selfish mirror, ready to fight with the universe when I barely have the breath to sing. I’m an autumn fragrance that winter will freeze, that too, I don’t fucking know.

I hear my soul protesting within its four walls about my logic as a wanderer. It’s because it also sees light through the only window it has. I am both free and prisoner, without vision in a luxury fog, my eyes wide and open, surprised and frightened by the spectacles of their imaginations.

We will not understand any of this. If I tell you that I am curious like a cat, greedy like a dog, I will remain for you only a pile of metaphors.

I should be more transparent and honest.