a tank of body fluids
a fishnet of neurons,
an unraveled string ball of nerves,
and I know the plan when the mailman will ring
to pick up the expired package
of my life
But I don’t know
what’s the plan
for all my memories
and my loves
and my hatreds
and my joys
and my pains
and my mistakes
and my triumphs
All these memorabilia
collected from finished and unfinished trips
into the still unexplored park
of my existence,
caressed now
by the night’s cold hands
Nobody knows the divine plan
for the storage rooms
of our lives
Why so much secrecy?
