At last
my bloom is withering
like I am descending from
the soar of my life
and cracking
in onslaught of these relentless
poking woodpeckers of
tick-tocks
knocking on these wooden doors
that like termites
chewing my leisure down,
waking my ending
up,
in onslaughts of these creases and wrinkles
spreading from my eyes to other’s,
volatilizing from whimpers
to
naught,
these protrusion of feelings
from the tips of my fingers
to unknown,
to
unknowable,
these
unwinnable races,
these
unending queues of ruts and racers,
to aeon!
::
Death starts from the first breath,
Everlasting,
from the first death.
We are the narrow islands of finites
as scarce as “now.” in the ocean of timelessness.
Now, the only amplitude of existence,
which neither is to stay,
nor even to really exist,
oscillating forever
between infinity and zero,
these moments that like the little insects
their only purpose
is to bash against windshields,
turning to stains
and pushed aside
by the wipers of these
clock's hands.
