The painter on silence

I walked through of stone and soil hills,
and that reminded me,
that still my vertigo
wouldn’t make you to cease…

I swam through seas of suspicions and doubts,
with the eternal bitterness,
from whom can’t keep afloat,
from whom lose his boat…

I climbed mountains,
of scars and wounds,
that nobody knew to heal,
and nor even could deal…

But in silence, I understood,
that all came from you,
that only you,
were the painter of my loneliness.

Wicked and erring homeliness.