(Polunin inspired also)

 Both dancers in the dark, like dented souls that never had seen each other become one at the first glimpse. 

Those words like a homeopathic drug, every day, a little bit of the old stinky venom, from the womb to the tomb. 

That bell like a ticking bomb on the brain for whom it tolls

The hell like dante's inferno, no fire nor water, just nothing rolls.

This is not a poem.

 I'm tired of seeing towers of black smoke and columns of fire, mushroom clouds and no more blue skies in the horizon. I'm tired of having to see oil blackening the ocean and killing everything in an instant spreading. I was already tired of not seeing any true faces and right now the use of masks all over seem just a redundancy.

I want to see the forests and the sea of trees and delve deep into a more pure air than this around me, till I feel my lungs have no incapacity at all. I want to go to Aokigahara and never look anymore at my wrist veins. I need the depression monster to go away and stop haunting me before the despair or the instant insensitivity allows it to win this darkness war. And yes, I need (to go back to our primordial home) and want to dive in the ocean and not come back ever again to land. 

"I'm tired, boss." Very, very, really, really. 

When the days expire and only beauty rises above sadness and joy...

 Have you asked Time to be your friend? Do you believe it to exist just like mankind defines? Your whole life is put in boxes in what seems a never-ending construction site, but as the filing occurs some get lost in the palace of mind. When your memories are covered with the dusty cement and the orange dry mud of the bricks, and you can't see through them, who are you then?

Lebanon explosion

 Polish the shards that were your heart before, when you were young and innocent and no continuous explosions were at your door 

Recoil the small springs of your lungs, even though they're 40% short of breath, you'll need them now to jump over the cloud of debris 

Lime the topsy turvy vertebrae on your back, as your right leg will always be longer and its hip and knee aching 

You'll have to pass through the rumble and the rubble, despite having nowhere to go 

This yellowish-pink dense dust that is sticking to your whole body and soul covers everything your eyes can reach

There is an orange-brick powder now colouring your hair, just like old rust rotting dry on metal 

 I hope your hands, in the absence of light, tap-tapping, can find your loved ones again inside those broken walls before they crumble and fall.

...

It will always be strange to know that you're gone 6ft down under to become perfected dust, when I'm still wandering on the streets looking at the windows shops.

 

My eyes are prisoners of these window bars even more now in the pandemic state of mind of the air and the sun. 

...