Dough In Empty Eggs Poem by Maria Mitea

castaway

we use words to stay on the surface

beneath each word
we find the emptiness of the sea, comforting
when we reach the Mundus point, at will
the blood flows like a waterfall as if has no past and no future,
then maybe,
maybe
in a wildly literary language confronted/confused with a word
or two: gentlemen, how do you feel about being scalped?
- thank you, we feel extremely well as you know
at the tip of the tongue, we find everything we are looking for (the needle, ... the cannon...)
and
a samurai's sword is nothing but his soul, - baked dough în empty eggs,
a clot in the veins,
vessels of..., vessels for...

shipwrecked

we use words to stay on the surface like a healing bruise
healing by itself