The sun is broad above the forests,
intoxicating, blinding bright.
A moment of perfection, flawless,
a quiet place, almost a rite

of passage for transcending all
the measly binds of blood and flesh.

I lie beneath the sun, I crawl
the veins of this subastral trench.

I gaze upon how far I've come,
I weep upon what's left to creep,
whoever hikes a mountain lone
will feel it's hillside twice as steep.

Alone with thoughts there's nothing better
than doubting your way to the peak.
Sometimes I wonder, would I ever
walk paths, not knowing where they lead.

In the bliss of a given chance,
there are heartbeats in a trembling rhythm.
i ask God why he gave me these hands
when i can't even help myself with them.

A six-foot soul, rotting, wrapped in a tarp,
is being smoked, attempting to preserve it,
to sounds of shamans playing their mouth harps.

I

A rusty nail - a ray of the dawning sun,
is hammered into my back, for i'm a *******
kept indoors, as of now pondering on
some smart s**t that was once written by Sartre.

Connecting with my blood in an ill bond,
the duff concoction causing vigil and delusion,
would pull my tears from deep within my bones
to push them out in a sickening extrusion;

It made my stomach an acquintance of my lips,

It filled my throat and mouth with sore blisters,

as if i was a poor child that lisps,
exhibiting his skill in saying tongue twisters.

II

Woven into the crumb of my mind,
putrid spores of diseases untreated.

If i haven't left my past behind,
than my future is present repeated.

In the wetlands of the flat that i live in
there's a garden in a bottle of Jäger,
and a vine hanging down from a ceiling
by a table with an unopened letter.

III

The one who knows that what a tear holds,
will know that death is but a crude satire.
The one who built a shrine to suffering with words
will never die and always be admired.

In the bliss of a given chance
there are heartbeats in a trembling rhythm.
i ask God why he gave me these hands
when i can't even help myself with them.

Every slave must abide by its master.
The bitterness of carrying out
any action that will benefit others.
There’s no shame in not having choices
but there is in not having doubts.
Far beyond an ultimate freedom,
an excuse for an absence of self,
there is life overpowering reason,
and a reason overpowering death.
Being found in a state of despair,
stripped of respect to the bone,
a necessity more needed than air
to a slave – is a slave of its own.

Every slave must abide by its master.

Kneeling before what is stronger
or standing before what is weak,
is a future that cannot be wronger
or a past that could not be more bleak.
Far beyond understanding and meaning,
there is craving devouring men,
be it owning or knowing, or being,
it is always a mark of the end.
The imminent burden of pain
perishes as soon as you delve
into waters that can wash you away.
Every slave is a slave to himself.

Here I am and here I’m not,
and, will never be again.
Prisoner to my own thoughts;
way too mortal for a man.
When you’ll see me talked my lips,
life be drained and be I dead,
place two tulips on my chest,
pray for me, and then forget.
Close my eyes
and let me rest.