Last Slope of Summer


There is a stillness that catches me
In middle of the last hours of Summer
Catching me from the inside

Adrift, in the memory of haunted
Centuries that are no more
I hear low voices in the horizon
Chanting syllables of dust
Nothing moves but Autumn’s approach

Time is lethargic and artificial
I can feel the low sky vibrate
Inside my heart, each hour feeling

Larger, more spacious and more fleeting
In an acceleration where memory
Is lost in a whirlwind of sensations
And I promiscuously must harden myself
To survive these faceless moments

I have unlived today’s suffering
Until I escaped memory itself
And the idea that I was conquered by
Mortal hours that had no light to return.

8 thoughts on “Last Slope of Summer

    • I really appreciate you saying so, sometimes the life of an artist is pretty sad, and the hundreds of hours writing alone isn’t the most healthy environment to live. But it is what it is, like any secret passion that we invest in, a sacrifice that enables us to discover a new identity.

      • I agree and disagree. For me sharing with others and making art my career I feel as if I have more support and inspiration than when I kept it inside myself. Yes the isolation in our own world’s really is imagination that allows us to channel all that is rich from our environment and share the pearls of truth with everyone. Like a light illuminating the hidden beauty of this world by finding that within ourselves.

      • That being said your work is a gift and I admire it and this poem you really revealed so much depth about your present state and all of our states as fall is a meditative season. I really admire such honesty in art work. Bravo

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