Poetry

                                   gone by in time
             
               like a thieving nutmeg that spoils and spreads
                 the eldering crawls unentreatably in spurts
          the buon fresco of the past up in the ceiling of my mind
                    its plaster having brittled and flaked
                has let loose the painted fractals of what i was
                         down a swart and endless void

                 the tense pluriperfect no longer holds for me
                      even the simple past begins to go
     i hear the soundless brittle brattle of fragments of what had been
                          falling slowly and fast away

                          leaving the remnant of my self
                  alone in the stark wilderness of my mind//

                                         renato
                               friday 02 january 2015