WHAT’S
LEFT AT THE END OF IT ALL?
Lorenzo Vantaggiato
October 2005
Lost as I
was
looking for
one of many exits
to my life
I never had
a father
and
fathered myself with sugar daddies
or this old
soul of mine
at
graduation
at every
departure
at every single
tear I cried
at every
single laugh I sighed
and in so
doing
I never had
a brother
and could
never be a brother to my other brother
who was
rather sly in devising
a different
corner to his turning.
At
seventeen
I learned
to cry in this rather severe
and yet
romantic
language
that I still use
as my first
and a half language
trying to
conceal and yet express
the many
disguises of my life.
What’s left
at the end of it all
of all
these masks replacing the real
quite a
long time ago?
What is
more real,
fiction or
fact?
Nothing but
silence
stormier
than those heights
I used to
frequent
and yet
filled with passion
and
rummaging for joy.
