Imagination with trapped wings.

We imagine.
Because it's not enough.
Because the ground burns
and the ceiling falls
and the word tomorrow
sounds hollow.

We close our eyes
and search for the secret fold in the world
through which to escape
without moving our feet.

There, the ownerless forest is born,
the city without clocks,
the body without weight.
There, everything is possible,
except escape.

Because there are times
when imagination doesn't save,
it only adorns the prison.

It becomes a mirror,
it multiplies,
it shows you other versions of yourself
that also don't know how to escape.

And you fly,
yes,
but in spirals.
You return to the same point
with broken wings
and the sky intact,
too high,
too blue to touch.

The mind draws doors
but forgets the keys.
It creates windows
that open onto the same room.
Build stairs
that go up in circles
until you lose all sense
of what was below.

Everything is a dream
but nothing relieves,
you discover
imagination also tires.

Because you can't live
only in silence with the possible.

What hurts
isn't reality,
I think it's the failed attempt
to abandon it without a body.

And you're left
floating between the "what if"
and the "still here,"
with the feeling
that dreaming without leaving
is just another way of being trapped.