How could You
imbue the soul
and infuse it with pain
into a dull white
which are symmetrically arranged
on the background of
a transparent ‘flesh in blue’
of an x-ray shot
that I see on a screen of a machine?
Was I ever alive?
and for every peephole
there should be a finger on the other side.
and for every finger there should be
a celestial arch to poke through and reach out to God.
and God wants the crying heart.
and for the carnal labyrinth of a heart
there always should be a wandering soul roaming inside.
and for the wandering soul there should be a hope, —
otherwise the hope will be lost.
and for the despair, there is an eternal fire
of a burning bush, but only for those who’s paying attention.
and for those who wants to know, there should be
a peephole to look.
and a handkerchief in the pocket ready to wipe off the tears.
and following the tears, comes rust
and for rust, there is no time
I was thinking about God,
and how He creates this world
using letters and the infinite light;
black light on a white.
what about myself,
not a poet, just trying to write;
black letters on white.
sometimes I feel lonely when I write,
or maybe I write because I feel lonely?
(I know it is only a feeling)
God is always one and He is obsolete; we’re always looking for someone, to be somehow complete.
my father says, any artists are lonely in the world they create.
they are walking the streets
of the Big City
following the marching band,
a group of monks wrapped in
the glitter fabric,
and a woman with the two king poodles on the leash.
they are looking for a new definition of an Ontological Argument.
(there is no new, I know)
I am drinking wine and looking into the fire.
waiting for my additional soul to depart
from my body.
(three, two, one, zero. lift off)
soon she will come and take me to the
so I came from the dust
and to the dust I’ll come back.
to the dust that serpent eats day and night
because he can’t eat anything else
because the dust is everywhere
and it is always stays dust
and doesn’t change.
it is becoming me
but then it turns back, at the end.
and you don’t have to thank anyone
for the dust.