Photo by JB 2016
As a cat that’s now old I am warming
my black hairs and my skin at the sun;
it’s no more than a tepid ball that
loses zenith and falls to the Alps
I look back: I had so many time.
I curse at its obsessive run. I
see my errors and not fixed pulses,
as corruption of lifeless anaphors
It’s Your Advent, it’s so now, again,
and I’m waiting for you sitting on
piles of already lost, wasted chances
due to sloth or to traps. I’m so inept
Come again anyway, please, I pray
You and Your Sweet Mom, that is my Mom.
I am clumsy as a grasshopper’s that
tries to fly to the sky.
I miss You
November, 27th 2017