He smiled weakly,
though it was sincere.
Sighed meekly,
burnt out; completely.
But still;
there is something
that made it
worthwhile to be here.

We're just strangers,
who recognise each other.
Time squeezed us together,
then pushed us apart.
But we go on living.
Change is,after all, life's Art.

I don't know if I have any talent.
Or know if what I play, write or draw;
is of any value.
Most likely not;
to the world at large.
I just do that what I do.

Will it bring me my bread?
pour me my water?
No, not at all.

Will the money flow to me?
No, clearly not.
So what does it do?
why is it worth it all?

Because; it is my reason,
my love, my need.
The spark, the birth,
the seed.
My lover, my heart,
my child.

In the a place outside of any place.
In the space between space.
where there was never a point without anything,
or  a point filled with something.
Is the incomprehensible question;
with it's incomprehensible answer.

You may think you have no shadow.
But I see it dancing behind you.
I can't see it's face,
but I'm sure that it's smiling.
But it's no smile of fructose.
Just of bile and scorn overdose.

With topography riding limbs.
In seamless synchronisation
with yourself.
I hear it whisper and hiss,
with sounds of ****** bliss;
At each unseen bruise inflicted.

You're really pretty strange.
The way others speak of you.
Without ever really knowing you,
Or having spent time in your presence.
Often they talk at you,
then listen to you speak.
But seem to hear words
different from the
ones you spoke.

Strange, quite strange.
Though, it seems to work well for you.
Whatever you take or say.
whoever you bruise;
metaphorically or literally.
Is transformed then by some act
of inner god, to acts which
sanctify the passion that
you inspire.
That passion which sparks bonds,
matrimony and procreation.

And yet it seems, as songs
has often said, you really are forever.
Even if you are not with
them forever.

I do not belong;
nor would I want to:
to your flags, regalia
and fanfare.
Your anthems of
passion for
plain dull soil.
Bore my mind
and curdle your thought.

I could not sing;
those songs of unity:
the many words
and melodies of
vicarious triumph,
imaginary victory's.
A vague sense
of something,
of which you're too sure.

I will not hoist;
the fabric symbol:
watch it fold, dither
and ripple.
with the imagined weight
and meaning.
That which you treasure so
deep and dear;
is just a flag in the wind.