In Equalling

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.