The sun flattens your vision to a wavering point. You search for a different sun. There is no other.
The wind stymies your breathing to an asthmatic wheeze. You search for a different wind. There is no other.
The sea shortens your journey to an anonymous port. You search for a different sea. There is no other.
The sky opens its vistas, vast, beyond your reach. You search for a different sky. There is no other.
The city blots your horizon with soot, smoke and ash. You search for a different city. There is no other. β The day dissolves in hours without number or name. You search for a different day. There is no other.
Beauty upholds its ideal like a statue without wings. You search for a different Beauty. There is no other.
The word pollinates the page with a frail, feeble sense. You search for a different word. There is no other.
The self mirrors the cosmos, a contracting black hole. You search for a different self. There is no other.
The poem laughs at your yearning for Artβs Eternal Form. You search for a different poem. There is no other.
So you write the same poem from the same shrinking self, with the same weakling words, seeking the same ideal Beauty, β On the same day after day, in the same ***** city, under the same endless sky, beside the same aimless sea,
Into the same stifling wind, blinded by the same soulless sun. And you call it a different life. But there is no other.