By Kalina Nedelcheva
| To Move; | To Struggle; | To Live; |
| Unspeakable truths— | Capture my soul, | It is negation; |
| I'm drowning, | Twisted in thoughts of a present singularity | That is a sovereign to my being. |
| Searching for a mediation between | What is right and what is wrong— | It exists in the crevices: |
| Beauty and the grotesque | I am told these are universal truths, | Of reality. |
| But they are absent, | Like bird songs in winter; | Reverberations of hope— |
| Unknown; | To me, they are | Escaping my ego which is |
| Broken. | Lost in translation. | Dead. |
| Are these abject apologies | Truth or | Lies |
| That ring in my ears… | Is it my comfort, | That stops the heart; |
| Belonging to those who struggle? | Weighted down by all that is known? | Venerated spectres— |
| It is impossible | For the cruel and insidious, | The holy and benevolent that transition |
| To follow these narratives | These spectacles of chaos… | To the depths of the psyche |
| One relies on destruction, | Resonating loudly, | Like a cacophony of crumbling realities… |
| To create meaning… | Is to captivate; | A distraction wasted on |
| The Drowned; | The Saved— | The human and nature; |
| There is no difference | Only devastating similarities… | The sameness of the damned; |
| As moments | Are captured, | Histories are written, they are |
| Passing through time, | unnoticed; | Screaming for remembrance; |
| Unmarked and unidentified. | They swirl like typhoons; | But no one notices… |
| The ugliness diverts the eyes, | Intertwined in devastation— | We move on, |
| Change course; | Somewhere close to truth again… | We forget who we are; |
| No one wants to look in detail | Into the chasm | Of human origin, |
| Because there lies the promise of | Resilience; | We don't know what to make of it |
| self-destruction | Is | The only answer— |
| A ticking bomb, | Waiting… | To erase; |
| Waiting to implode; | To take my captured soul with it, | And forget; |
| To devastate, | Those who are left are | Negations that propel you to oblivion, |
| And the only thing that stands in the way— | Expecting | The rejuvenation of life is |
| time. | A return of what is lost. | Gone. |