The lane into no man's land
How long is this road?
Endless already I walk this road. Ahead, the horizon dives into a flabby pulp, the so called brain. The balance between infinity and the oppression of dreams will be undergoing a breaking test. Where are the galaxies of my finitude? Did half a winding in my head really producing this chaos? What about the dregs?
Rotting flesh, the bone of contention, disposal-expectant matter.
Oh heaven, where remains your fabulous wealth?
Oh hell, where do I find your scares?
How convenient would you be, hell, if you could spare me the ignominy of nothingness. Even an eternal bliss of heaven could not horrify me, would that be the only way out of the waste of insignificance.
Road, how long are you? Are you the straight junction between misery and faith? Or is the belief in you just the trappy luck of the lemmings. Or is the luck of faith in finiteness the way?
Road, I should not ask you. You are, and I am. You are not asphalt and I am not flesh. Both of us live in the graveyard of time. Anyhow, you latch onto me like a dog on his flea.
Cognito ergo sum!
Who cares?
Should I be pleased about this?
I see daily the corpse of the hiker decay on his road.
I wonder why I feel luck yet.
How long is this road?
Endless already I walk this road. Ahead, the horizon dives into a flabby pulp, the so called brain. The balance between infinity and the oppression of dreams will be undergoing a breaking test. Where are the galaxies of my finitude? Did half a winding in my head really producing this chaos? What about the dregs?
Rotting flesh, the bone of contention, disposal-expectant matter.
Oh heaven, where remains your fabulous wealth?
Oh hell, where do I find your scares?
How convenient would you be, hell, if you could spare me the ignominy of nothingness. Even an eternal bliss of heaven could not horrify me, would that be the only way out of the waste of insignificance.
Road, how long are you? Are you the straight junction between misery and faith? Or is the belief in you just the trappy luck of the lemmings. Or is the luck of faith in finiteness the way?
Road, I should not ask you. You are, and I am. You are not asphalt and I am not flesh. Both of us live in the graveyard of time. Anyhow, you latch onto me like a dog on his flea.
Cognito ergo sum!
Who cares?
Should I be pleased about this?
I see daily the corpse of the hiker decay on his road.
I wonder why I feel luck yet.