Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The venom
Of
Scorpion,
Pierces through
My flesh
And,
Stings.

I am compelled
To
Dance in a mad
Scramble,
As the poison.

Takes hold.

My ego is about
To die.

Tripping on some divine
Archetype,
Of change-
Transformation,
Tinged with the death
Of self.
I am enshrouded
In Eternal
Darkness
And
I never asked
For there to be
A light.

Perpetual
Night-
With nothing
But the
Enveloping
Dusk.
I have
become
Something imploding.

Something pathetic,
Wrapped up in my
Personal
Iconoclasm of apophenia-
Seeing signs
That make no
Sense-
Except
In an ambiguous way,
With something you might.

Have.

Thought.

Just a passing figment,
Of my imagination.

Some kinda abstraction,
Rotating in
My.

Mind,
It's quite broken,
I assure you.

And,
You wouldn't be the first
To
Get
Confused.
Somewhere across the
Noise.

Someone died
And I was glad-
it-
Wasn't
Me.

I have shallow
Empathy
And don't mourn
My losses.

They lived
Longer
Than I ever
Wanted
To.

Still. I
Persist
In this miserable
Monotony.

Lucky,
Epistemic luck,
I don't think
I know you?
Every morning
I wake up,
Against my will.

This too shall pass
Into
Another catastrophe,
And,
It doesn't give me solace
Anymore.

All these antediluvian
Anecdotal adages,
Bring me back,
To a false life,
And you.

Each little in joke,
Every single offence
I had to give.

Doesn't break me like it
Used to.

Maybe after
I get some coffee,
Chain-smoke through my free time.

And,
Work.

I'll feel better.
I feel.
Nothing,
But hate.
Now.

For everyone.
I see myself in light and shadow.
I wipe away “always and never” like spilled water,
when the paradox bothers me.

I dissolved my soft boundaries,
in the name of unreal faith.
So many places, so many faces,
yet another beginning.
I keep rolling a big stone beside others.
The home I dreamt of now exists in my world.

I have found this time, this place
describing what cannot be translated:
a room for uncertainty,
farewells and returns.

I like to stand in the last row,
to see tired bodies.
I whisper good words,
to make the world a little better.
My sovereignty is a willingness
to be an echo,
the symbol, the myth,
or a meaningless element
in the chain of woven stories.

I love metaphors.
I find myself in a forest of ellipses,
that bring unbearable truths.

Tensions, contradictions,
awareness that everything that lights
brings unseen weight.

I am a part of stories,
to vanish into oblivion—
the done past.

The Earth still breathes with me,
or without me,
among blooming linden trees.
So, I want to stay,
to open my eyes,
and be with what remains.
To my Father
Next page