The Creative Mind Of A Survivor Poem by Sebastian Soberania

A long time ago
i have that fear that being alone can be a tragedy

For instance, who shall fetch me water from the well?
Who shall give me the glass? and serve me breakfast on the plate?

Sleeping alone can be insomniac
No placement of this body is giving me the soundness of sleep.

But people leave us, and we soon shall be left alone
To tend for ourselves what is left of us

This the reality of living.
I was not born with a twin. Or even if i had a twin

Soon there shall be quarrel, soon there will be parting.

So here i am, practicing how to be alone with myself again.
Reviewing that part when i was born, when i cried and when

I was slapped in order to check that i am fully alive.
The bed is my wife. The blanket is my dog. And my slippers my

children. The door is a watchdog. And the window is a cloud.

This sounds crazy. But these images create the crowd.
The people around for real are things. The kitchen is a show

Of male forks and female spoons. They hand me food. On the plate
is the stage where rice grains dance and pork chops do the circus

Upon the snow. Porcelain plates and coffee cups, talking like

TV hosts reading me the morning news. The Walls are Trees.