I don’t remember my face,
I don’t count wrinkles.
I have never created idols
For worshipping them and hating them.
I keep terrible secrets
Of those who are gone.
When clay knocked their coffins
I was standing alone…
If I could see the absence of a sense…
If I could hear but not listen…
If I could know life is so empty…
A curtain would drop earlier…
It feels like strings vibrating
Somewhere inside of me…
The source of my life pulsates
Deep in inner devouring horror…
A torrent of words reflecting my thoughts
Falls by downpour unto me…
I behold a world of parallels
Painted by withering imagination…
Now I set free the warm of life
Through a door closed so long ago,
Now I get used to feel cold,
I escape this reality… ruined… |
