Such a strange affair
in between here and there
it seems I am going nowhere
since no matter how I go forward,
there always turns to here
yet remains also out ‘there’
like we never forwarded,
or there
has never come
closer or near,
for everywhere we go
still names here.
Like dimensions are the marionettes
of the three musketeers
and our awareness
is the ever only puppeteer.
Though wherever we go
we would never grow
out of me and you;
this separation
has no cure to patch again and glue.
no matter how we walk
me and you,
here and there,
we’re a pair
of either this or that shoe.
This is a question whirling in my ear
like an echo, a susurration I can hear and rehear:
when over there
dissolves in where I stand, in here,
why would distances never go anywhere
and disappear?
Why no matter how many times I fill up this glass,
does still the glass
become empty and clear?
Why wouldn’t we ever definitely go through or pass
no matter how slow or fast going
through the throat this hourglass,
for upon the treadmill of this impasse
to my emptiness
I would be thrown again and again
and regress.
