Take a few self-made germs of self-doubt
And throw them into the four laid back corners
of a virtually empty yard while still humming
the same tune with the silent photographs
Hanging above the second-hand sofas,
Wandering off the beaten track of tenses past,
Picturing a new knock on the door,
So fertile, that would feel like
out of the too experimental, contradiction laboratory
where seeds are born at the right time.
Each new revelation becomes
One-of-a-kind withdrawal of sun warmth and light
from entire generations of faked nobilities
and their pitiful self-pride.
To me, you are less than my predefined existence,
In a rye field with no catchers and no rain!
A mere hostile climate, with no repeatable weather forecasts
as part of an unexplainable, recorded tragedy,
a borrowed life lesson, lacking character and identity.
Without my permanent phobia-
I am becoming more and more sensitive
To the seasonal crops and rethought samples of abstract art
Like a mirror - allergic to tears
and all the pretend signals at the bottom of old, running streams
Now - a long enough way from the top of my lungs -
I’m drowning myself in nostalgia,
Lost and found in my own frozen loyalty maze,
halfway this rented, almost exclusive lifespan,
and its intricate system of lifeless caves.
It’s all about till death will do us apart.