As soon as I think I fall to pieces
without really living
these many docile moments fade into sunlit dust
drifting past Belo Horizonte
beyond mug marks
and coffee stains
swept up in shivers

this life marked by experience
or lack of
marred by scars and trepidation
this life pondering heaven
and the hell below
chasing hedonism and ecstacy
without leaving home

this indoor existence
contains cautious visions of agoraphobia
and contorted evil
in faces struck down by the daily grind
the routine
different to those fables
and the knowledge passed on by thin words of hope.

This life a cold day in November
Tuesday afternoon