Poetry is on my mind, in my blood.
It’s the focaccia I eat, the air that I drink, the nitrogen that lulls me into a false sense of security and addicts me to the silence of the sea …
It follows me into the darkest alleys of the Maddalena and pounces when I pause to seek out the moon.
It hears the flap of my flip flops on the road, and outruns me on my way to the world.
The devilish lullaby, once heard unpurgeable, sleeps in the bell towers and in the boats docked in the old port and in the museums that you stroll leisurely through, thinking yourself free of mind and of spirit.
But once a pawn or puzzle piece of poetry, always a pawn or puzzle piece of poetry. For the all-pervasive power of sentiment controls and dictates and upholds and berates and moulds and erases its benefactors.
Behold! The unrequited love of the written and spoken world, the word that takes on life feeds on our soul, rips our heart whole from our chest, and tramples love into the dust that clothes your bookcase,
all while watching gleefully on as we sing its elegy to the sky…