I don’t want that typical Dawn anymore,
The spiral of Gold, our inevitable fortune;
Childhood faith in everything and everyone
Only possible without the memory of fatigue;
Even then, I have encountered all this before.
Forgetfulness is my disease,
I absorb all anxieties;
Archetypes offer nothing but potential roles,
Pillars of illusion, sign-posts hurling us into the terror
Of fantasy, the death of the Sun.
History is no more than words,
Realer than the ‘souls’ issuing them again and again —
Their flesh, no more than wires of thought tying vowels —
What is the fate of the tragedy of tomorrow?
Loneliness, return, a mirror for a widow?
Desires are the reflection
Of the futility of salvation,
I wander, wasting, decaying in all aspects:
Breath is lost, the sage who I once was is enslaved
In a nunnery eternally awaiting spring.
A poet in this age, the only universe,
Must either create a world from sorrow
So the endless irony isn’t found
Or retrieved as the only divinity
Founding the carousal setting as music on the Horizon
Or face the fact that he inherits nothing but imminent silence; —
Even now, I despise expression, I destroy any chance of truth
By comparing myself to potentiality,
The resin of the past which once existed without the vagueness of a half,
As something worth more than the will of itself.
If this is for no one, then I am beyond death; —
What is the point in writing
If silence is the only catalyst for change —
Kali is one of my closest companions
But if it’s only to torture myself, I must remain silent
And never take action, or walk in the seat
How I do in space, — Brother! — If you were never born
I would be long gone by now, either dead or alive,
Alone as genius, no will for spontaneity —
The smirk which must’ve disintegrated me a million times before.