These are the lines of the ancient, the lines of me, of desert, of the truth
These lines are much older than my eyes could ever feel
And the taste of those days of unborn nature
Were like perspiring tears upon skins of these souls
A thin plead of ignorant tissue spread over morphologically similar cells of nothing
An alone bio-individual divided into small pieces of condolences.
These lines are the savor of blanked poetry blood
Underlying this pungency of doing nothing but to contemplate
This pungent chimera of ruminate and reflect, theorise and cogitate
A daydream before the day I was born...
I am not here
You are not there
Although you feel a body living inside you
This is sorrily a distateful "I'd very much like to, but..."
And this is you living inside of what you believe is a body
Because your spirit is lost inbetween emptynesses of us and us.
These lines ought to weave into your bowels and twist out
All over your wishes of tenderness and care
But your meat is rising underneath a waterfall of regretfulness.
I am only able to visualise the empty of mine
The mistaken asserts of yours, the lost awarenesses of ours...
These lines shall stand for the unknown, the untasted, the unseen.
These are running-mouth lines of very much pleasured lowdowns experiments...
Yes! The lowdowns of the truth and all its redundancies.
You claim to be up to you but, this is not really a decision of yours.
You seem to feel being above all, but these questions are up to us.
