no space to breathe, and still ironically
no eyes to envision,
the invisible realities of
your one man desultory game,
but we never stop playing.
a thousand voices,
those creaks and that noises,
of haphazardly haunting silence in your head,
and your requiem for your conscious,
but we never stop singing.
stuck stationary in this hastening surrounding,
feeling the wilderness of,
your sudden unwelcome but unavoidable
and you tremble along the way,
but we never stop stop moving.
virtues of a man, the feeling of disassociation.
And a kid throwing pebbles,
on the dead bright face of a lake,
beautifully vacuous of everything,
nothing to gain nothing to lose,
complete in himself,
unlike you or this work.
Poem Source : Unknown
Picture Source : PostSecret