Letter's Flesh (V.2)

The letters glow their flesh before the fishermen’s eyes, gathering in wide loops, forming words that flutter like butterflies caught in the nets of the curious, between the tips of the fingers emptied of passion. Almost burning, on the tracks of beginnings yet to come, carriages of letters gather. They struggle against gravity, amid the deafening creak of the wheels, avoiding decay. They wait for another world to begin. Time, unblind, watching the fluttering of words with clipped wings heading toward the heavens untainted by man, laughs at them with amnesiac pathos. The indivisible word, slides dully over the crown of the head into astral descriptions and myths of clay- dust wrapped in shrouds, triangular like a tent over frightened bodies. The word indivisible, molded itself from letters, vibrates in the silence that decomposes both meanings and stars. It is a war of mutilated words, nearly rotten, in forms meant to hold a world in specific nooses— a horizontal prison of vectors, of waves, loops, strings, and trumpets. It is a war of commanded words- the history of a world created in illusions, words-images projected onto the dark canvas that surrounds the Earth, cursed to be ruled by the word. Peace stretches out in the silence beyond the flesh of incarnated letters. Time, blinded by the light of silence, dissolves into the molten lead of letters. The meaning intended for creation has fallen silent.