(Leaving what becomes vain)

A thought floats -
phlegmatic -
"I" is an idle reflection
in a mirror
that breathes heavily
and sweats.

The finger that touches it
brings salty droplets
to the mouth,
a lost connection
to the taste of a friendly sea.

Time opens up like a trap,
as the body falls
wearing the heavy diving suit
that will stick to the damaged skin
like a snail.

Until all that is left
is the mind - not for long -
like a house with no windows
in the middle of a storm.

The wind travels in it
visiting every corner,
eroding old pieces
of gigantic furniture.

Once it has been emptied,
like an abandoned shell,
it lies there,
used up, useless.

Only the sparkle,
delivered of poisonous earthly days,
is free at last
and flies away
like a word happily escaped
from a dusty book.