Marco Di Caprio

I have sat too long staring into a dark, narrow path.
What I try to express comes out distorted, obsessive.

I am like a diver at the edge, afraid at first,
then finally plunging into polluted depths
of oil, debris, and broken reflections.
My face dissolves in the industrial mire.

Then something shifts.
The black sea fades, replaced
by a cold, metallic blue.
Not water, but something artificial.

I sink.
My body resists, convulses,
caught in cycles of drowning and return.
Breath, loss, breath again.

Sound fragments into dissonant patterns,
trying to become words.
Visions pulse and scatter.

Again the rhythm:
sink, rise, sink, rise.
A ritual without end.

The sea withdraws
into its inner dark.

I am sitting.
I am watching.
There is a narrow path.

The sea is still inside me.

And something in me leans forward,
as if the fall has not begun,
or has never stopped—
into the same descent again.