Naked Soul

Do not call it haste, this thing that devours us.
It is an anxiety of existing that finds no peace in calendars,
a desire that climbs over the walls of logic.
To be a woman is an ancient craft,
made of precious loopholes that embroider the abyss
and silences that scream louder than the voids of the world.
Modernity is a frozen glass
trying to reflect an image that does not belong to us,
while we are the storm,
ink upon the pages of history.
I wear no laurel wreath,
but thorns that taste of rose,
I sold my silence for the gold
of a spark that illuminates eternity.
Seek me where the sea breaks apart,
among the shards of a wounded dream,
in the mad caress of a wrong love
where time is an eternal infinite.
Woman, shiver that seals the circle,
a thrill that shakes the skin
return to set the darkness ablaze.
Fingers tremble upon the paper
because writing is an act of impure faith.
There is no distance between heart and pen,
only a shudder that traverses the bones
becoming revelation without asking destiny for permission.
A tremor that only those who have inhabited the abyss can recognize.

Ada Rizzo