Now
I understand,
what I have heard:
the time is one’s
worst enemy.
Other kind
I am;
others doing is setting me in movement:
to move slowly,
to act undefined,
to loose in this game
of compromise.
I will never reach it now…
Death comes
some years before the death:
first one is reason for the second.
I’m a creature,
which can not do anything
beside feeling this,
this time illusion,
the thief of the priciest.
The perfect creation
is born
of the perfect wish to create.
Therefore will my work
never be something
- just echo throughout the creation,
through universe,
kept together
by men’s tissue…
Nothing belongs to me.
When I reveal my self
- I came from nothing;
barely causing reaction.
When I disappear
- I have never been here.
Everything becomes smaller
when beholden day by day.
Nothing stays the same
except age itself.
This
I’m seeing now
is not an epoch.
Who can grasp this fabrication?
The time is drug,
illusion made
of conspiration,
which was the reason for the beginning.
Weariness…
Weariness caused by so many
erroneous tries
is time.
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