The Shadow of the Self

The fog is climbing up the Rua das Tróias. A white silence spilling through the open Doors. I sit and watch my shadow stretch across the Floor. A man I used to be, a ghost I Can't ignore. The ink is drying on the page of things Unsaid. I am the spectator of the life I've Led. Oh, I am miles away From where I stand. A hollow kingdom in a brain of Sand. The cello weeps for cities I will never See. In this velvet dark, I set my Longing free. Just a fragment, just a ghost, Just the dust Of me. The beat is heavy like the Rain on Alfama tiles. I've walked a thousand dreams across these lonely Miles. My heart's a dusty theater, the stage is Bare. I feel the breath of someone who was never There. Pour the wine and nicotine, the scent of Old regret. The sun is setting on a life I haven't Finished yet. Is it weariness or is it Fear? The melody Is crystal clear. I am many, I am none. Between the moon and Setting sun. To exist is enough. To dream is too much. The book remains open.