I wonder what beingness
has in store for me.
The futile me
of burdened existence.
The frozen windÂ
cuts across my cheeks and
limp stray-dogsÂ
raise confused eyes at my messÂ
and the rising tendrils of smoke
in my hand.
I'd stop. I stop
just if I knew
what there is for me
naked blatant burning ice
under my back
or a stable foot
on soft ground.
One divine answer
and I'd stop.
I need impossiblity to break
just for once.
I believe only then
would my mind stop reeking
from queries and blame-games,
bitter accusations
and hateful scrutinizes
of being ignorant
of my make-believe purpose.
And for all I know of the moment:
It's just me dying
with the cold Christmas night.
Comentários