Marco Di Caprio

The autumn leaves are lifted by the wind,
the trunks are torn and dragged from out the earth.
The houses bend, collapse, and break apart,
as the wind has come to carry it all away.

All trembles now. The darkness slowly falls.
A silence purifies what I have been,
reducing it to torn and hollow words
that drift without a meaning I can grasp.

My mind is deaf and frozen into stone,
a cavern carved by dark and turbid streams.
I beg you, God, I beg you, yet no sound
returns to me. Why does it not answer?

A funeral of images appears:
they do not join, they never intertwine.
And now that solitude has taken hold,
the ghosts of former loves return as kings.

What has become of this torn consciousness,
now ripped apart by your enduring absence?
No words remain before the opened breach
that splits the failing rhythm of my breath.

So too your face repeats itself in loops,
a broken tape that never finds its end.
Just white. Just black. No color left between.
The only light is the one you took from me.

And when I close my eyes and think no more
of you, I lose the peace I used to know;
the Sun, the warmth, the gentle waves of light
that once allowed my soul to breathe and see.