The Cave Poem by Inigo Rivera

To look inwards
to only find a dusty cave
of old and weary bones
and nothing else.
What else could there be?
What else did you expect from a place forgotten long ago?
Was it roses of pure dew resting upon their redish flavour
or a gentle breeze of calming voice?
Was it not?
The purity of the dusty bones is yet greater
or so I’ve heard atop,
or so I want to think
when come upon myself in a lonely shell.
But I think this and then go that,
first comes one and then goes null,
dull,
all to avoid the place of deadly skulls
at night,
for by daytime it is all fine.
Imagine how bizarre,
yet more frightening it was
when I ended up dead in the middle of the day,
when daylight was still the queen
under whose reign I believed my person safe.
My eyes, oh my eyes,
they are not like those of mankind
for I can see at night,
amidst the darkness of the clammy hole.
Where there used to be a fairy waterfall
of springing waters all at once flavoured good
remains now the weakened, thinned stream,
dried away anew.
The maroon-gold flowers
withered due to lack of never-given sunlight,
the never-existed noontide summer’s hour
that never came to save the flower’s fruit from time,
noxious lover of our gullible selves.

And whilst thou liv’st I shall then drawn
or die with yet no suffer, for I have already suffered enough by life,
or await the shiny ways of a darkened sun
in the bowels of the cave I carved
and once in the blurry past enjoyed calling home.
But it is, in fact, no more than a rotten hole
carved out in the inner, most precious part of thy soul.
Thou, who art yet not other than what I see
on the surface of a broken mirror cracked by envy.