gratitude towards a lack,
always a lack, a lesson of brutal frailty,
and desire can have her punishment
hatred for a lack,
always a lack, a tarnish to the spotless mind bent eternity
and desire can be the opposition to faith
;few steps aways from the sky

faces of Sirius blink at me,
whose pups will not stop licking me.
they look at me with wide-eyed amusement,
or are they curious to know why I'm still alive?
who cares, for we all fade and disappear, eating ourselves up along with others around us with our bright gaze.

hollow roots, rhizomes of ephemeral apparitions,
I look up because I am underground, with parts surfacing out of the ground for only a season.
grateful still, water seeping through, refreshing, what cannot be washed away so easily.
but they say with feverish opposition:
"wither away, you without a flower to manifest your worth."
who cares, for as long as the roots are there (even if they are hollow),
what withers on the surface will grow back again.

I look up to the sky, underground.
I am tree that cannot grow unidirectionally, arborescently.
I am an imploding machine of desires,
a lack because of those excessiveness,
therefore I challenge Cerberus, only to lose, fallen, waiting for the time and chance,
to bite my existence back, to shed my metallic body,
to be no one and a variant of Prometheus.

and give him his final death.