my joints,
like my ideas,
often unravel.
my burning anaesthetics!
they leave nothing behind
but wasted time
and ash, whence no phoenix rises,
and potential turned to smoke.
i find only crude dreams that prop up this sordid reality.
oh my aching joints!
what escapes me: my escapes!
i should find new crutches
—at least then i'd have the capacity to read books of philosophy—
and i must forge a path
that heals my broken legs:
the path shall be made by treading it
though it shall bring great pain.
oh my aching ideas!
or - why not? - what's the harm
in one more attempt
at escape? i suppose it's no use: fact.
but what are these words now?
a true declaration must overflow with an act.