The wayfarer drifts away with tangled roads pumping inside his pulse,
highways are dusts revolting at his feet:
to the left and to the right,
branched to the infinite in arms and strings, in fingers and snakes.
Blurred faces, signs and riddles
spinning like slot machines at light speed.
He has already died somewhere along the way,
he has lived also or at least that’s what he remembers.
New roads bring their crossroads
for each thorn on the sole of his feet,
each crossroad brings a labyrinth
connecting here & there
before & after
now & then
time & space
point A with point B.
The bum opens his arms up to the sky asking for a sign like roots crawling underground for water,
but the constellations are
panting roads ahead of him.
Oozing the distance of his path,
wanting to drink all the rivers in one shot,
he’s thinking where to go next
but the road chooses for him
and he is already gone,
he’s gone tumbling.
The road pushes and throws him
running faster than he does,
walking its own way.
Breathless he wants to stay still on the bloated and blistered road,
in one place and one instant,
falling in a dream for a million years:
dreaming to become the road
while the road dreams to be him.
© Javier Felix ALL RIGHTS RESERVED