Another kind
You made it to the last day
counting to five
(You count to five
and you’re gone!)
They tried to convince you
that it is the path to invisibility
That’s why you exaggerate
pushing boundaries
of the clear instructions
(seven eight nine
foreboding replaces silence)
and the bed is empty
What cruelty of the numbers –
you mutter unconsciously
of the smile or
anything important
There is nothing
except for depression
and strong feeling
that for the denouement
which all invoke, another kind
of hero is needed.
Another man
We generally fail to avoid the trap of futility. It would take a different man for different circumstances. Sooner or later you see yourself hanging upside down, without a solution or a future, free of the need to have any ambitions. You feel less and less, and helplessness is all that remains. Every new awakening is a cognition of what has been wasted. You have zero chances from the start. The sadness you were born with has not disappeared. Never left you, you didn’t escape. Only sometimes, tired of itself, it would go to sleep and sleep for a long time, just long enough for you to forget it, relax, and let your guard down. Rested, it would stretch, yawn a couple of times, and again, who knows how many times till now, it would unleash the hell on you. Yet another love dies on your hands and the business failed just when you thought something different was possible. The hand you invest in everything you do is no longer enough. It never was. But at least it bought you time and delusions. Nothing can be fixed and everything is as it seems. Ugly glasses are glasses on the tables, and the silence is an endless space of being left breathless.