I think I gave myself away, with a musician and, the name and the data
this world gave me and by which it holds me by.
Thought the clock struck midnight and the spell broke,
thought we’d return to the measly grey resuming.
As one deems things too good as untrue, the bitter more reliable despite its fake,
I scared myself that name would take my truer life away.
Yet then it came to me through
that whilst among these
trash bins we live in
things may work this way,
in a greater dominion and
our hopes, talks,
we know it is our will
and creation of our wonderland that
makes the reality and true identity.
There, I could have spilled
“Juliet” once,
but it rests as mere
fog under “Dante” I
gave space to
to be found and born.
There,
No harm done.
I’m at the turbulent Baltic Sea and reminisced my error during a conversation,
Yet he and I both know
It didn’t even come to be
As we keep ourselves as we want to feel
And not how our ID wants to keep.
(For now, my only, seemingly, cigarette poetry as I call it. Strange yet not binding.)
