At the gates of demise
there’s a rush or a delay,
and a consequent celebration,
for we can finally let go
or continue to hold on
to an ever-evolving dream.
Millimetric-plans aren’t always perfect.
No matter how careful,
nor how well played the execution,
things have a tendency to sway
and to lean on the unexpected,
the unnoticeable threat
that suddenly emerges,
but that was always there,
lurking, waiting, hiding.
In the aftermath only self-deceit
and menial consolation.
Mercyful self-patting on the back
trying to integrate the experience
acquired for future considerations;
but, sometimes so shattering,
the petty realization
that we rush to forget
or postpone to reflect,
strikes again from beneath,
coexisting with the so vast
ignored failures.
Patterns of repetition aren’t always endless.
At the crumbling edge,
where neither hope
nor will would suffice,
there’s a rushful delay
in the midst of the consecration,
oxymoron and paradox of fate,
for the distortion of time
is only a matter of perception,
just like the outcome,
continuous fruit of our deeds,
blooming or shrinking
in the ever-evolving stream,
of the things we desire
and of those unexpected.
In the end, what there applies
is how to play the game
without worrying about prize or consolation,
even at the gates of demise:
there can emerge new revelations.