up though concrete bursts the ****
driven to escape the earth
a young white worm breaching into clear air
back down into the brain digs the worm
baring naked the roots of things long dessicated
the cause and causations of ontic self deceptions
there is ****** in there and ****** more
philosophies of blaming one's self for it all
the corruption that sits everyday on the back of the tongue
there is self harm and insightful immolations
trapped in the fossil scars of cigaette burns
borne like trophies from some childhood war
as some thoughts need the light of day
Love batters like a moth
against the dark windows of it's soul
There is no explanation for this.
The black chair sits
in the garden,
The mirror is
humans are, that is,
For Paul Celan.
(c) 2016. All rights reserved.
— The End —