The Friesian horses,

stepping in black cloths with hoods --


and snorting with life.

No age
no age at all
never a justification
a reason to placate us
just an implacable, non-negotiable theft
of love, histories and too much still to be

the solace, a skinflint’s compensation,
is that for a short while you had them
and they had you
and that was life

but that’s as much as you get
to try to make it through

This life must fail
In order to pass
Successfully on.

The dancer has died,

yet we are honouring life –


it's our murderer.

In the beginning man created
the thought: everything, mankind
and the earth, is a miracle
with a beginning

and anything that procreates
will die, only the sun
the stars and the stones
had no end, until later

infinity was conceived, the being
of even never having begun

so the rest, actually everything
that is known, the world
will have to perish one day

and, if you dare
to think it out, also
the elusive time

will not last and already
now, nothing is left
but nullity

Hands like bodies,
rough and calloused,
smooth and soft,
freckled knuckles,
blemished palms,
with cuts and scars littered like stars,
short and stubby or long and thin,
different skins and many strings.

Despite their difference,
they share the same sins,
capable of giving gifts,
but also skilled in petty theft.

Warm and kind caresses,
bruised and ****** stresses,
a gentle yet expressive message,
fingers trail like searing fire upon wry shaking lips.

I know naught of the difference between the living and the dead. For here on Earth, though my heart is still beating, I cannot help but feel so horribly miserable. And it may be death is not the end of life, only the decay of the body and not of the soul, but I should not know in this life.  At the end of this miserable existence, we may be relieved by a euphoria. Still, at the end of a life so fruitful, we may be met with the burning pits of hell. And if I will not rot nor prosper all my miserable days would be meaningless. Every time I think I know heaven, a hell must break my spirits. And still, it is more dreadful to met by a boring bleakness that hugs my existence like a child holds their mothers. To my knowledge, I may already be dead, as no one recognizes the characteristics of death. Life to our knowledge could be our own form of hell, but it may also be the utopia. Here on this dying planet, we may live beautiful lives. On this dying planet, we will die. Our heartbeat is the ticking of a clock that will stop one day. But the clock that is the world will not stop for you my love, as it will not stop for me. Everything that is, will not be one day. The sun and the moon and all the treasures of this world will one day be nothing. All the people that are here now will not be. Everything must die, you and I dearest, we will die all the same. Time is a force older than anyone knows and it will never end. We are only here until we aren't. Our bodies end there, but where does our soul go. I know naught of the difference between the living and the dead. Because my flesh is fresh, but my mind is old. But on the inside, I feel decay. Live because there tomorrow isn't guaranteed. Live because you can. If you live for me, I'll live for you. The meaning of life, I don't think there is one really. We just do, we just live. That's all there is.