There is no poetry,
There is only a life,
It looks like your dream
Is coming true,
But there comes the question:
Why?

There is no sense,
No meaning, no harmony,
And black ants fly,
But you are not able to ask:
Why?

Two people write each other.
One asks softly: "Do you have
Any time for your hobbies?"
The answer: "Yes, I have a life".
But immediately, this question
comes:
Why?

Why do you have your life?
And: why-why are you rife?
Any strife?

Sleepy bride.
Any guide?
Life's slide.

Bye.
(Sigh.)

Surely I would know it
If there were any truth to this
The senses, yet, are treacherous
And mostly so’s the wit

Truly I’ll believe it
When intuition strikes
The mirrors running liquid
Through my mind

Freely, I would will it
Convinced by logic’s myth
But ignorance is willfulness
And indifference is bliss

Clearly I can see it
Awoken from reality
Plugged into a conscience
That feeds on mere deceit

Naturally, I am it
The being and the time
Meddling in reality
Mistaking truth for mine

It hurts when the darkness takes over.
After that, it hurts no more.
Dead before the storm is felt then on.
It continues on and on.

The storm is supposed to arrive but
prolonged silence is “not” heard.
It fears something inevitable.
What’s nagging is the unknown.

When the storm does not arrive at all,
the dead before it persists.
It stays there, asking about the storm.
I sigh- “It did not arrive at all.”

When it's time to leave
Items distilled into bags
A tear for hardships grieved,
A smile for memories had.