Wednesday, 6 January 2010

At least deserves to live

Once we recognise that
what we do is meaningless
we can indulge in our passions.

Will you know yourself?
Is he another man?
Whom does time service;
for where do we have to go?

Can you still feel?
Do you look to the future?
Is memory worth more than life?

I used to know things - he used to know things
where are they? What became of me or him?

It and they appear to me as
the threads of an old life;
it should not be mine.

What do I feel?
What is this question?
Utter mortality;
a cheek to the end.
To wrap it in language
is to cushion the fear;
for it comes in waves.

It used to be an abstract presence.

The less I say the more ambiguous I can be.
On a road of self-destruction.

Suicide could be so poetic.

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