HEAVY-ROAD

I would really like to scrape some more bright, drop of joy from myself for this much-felt, twisted life, which still needs me to feel that there was - will be - still a sense to wake up early in the morning to the robot noise of dawns, and to set off with renewed energies with a will and a determined spirit for Cyclops-like days!

My feet often feel the splitting pain of fronts, and the snaking, creeping pain throbs unbearably in their discs. The yellow balls of my fatigue bind me in a sling, And sometimes I myself answer with a stagger, When men still curious ask and question.

I bear the sneaks of sneaky, living, sharp tongues behind my back in a sandy whisper - often in silence. They hiss in a shower of shuddering tears but I go on but my selfish restlessness walks in my wake. My restless heart in the shrieking silence is pounding in murderous silence.

Calmping but thundering, it pumps blood into my rope-arms. Ouch! I say: my curve-road to deserved renown-victory is hard to travel- Till in the miserable twilight of my existence My values are at all known; perhaps my two witnessing stars are scarce seen. It would be good to scrape together in myself a drop of joyful holy joy, a determined longing for a goal, when I am the one who is the winner and not the one who is being chased.

A restless shiver runs through the deep, restless tissue of my brain. Human snake-tongues still hiss to me; before me, problems towering grimly, are conveyed by grey-frozen, hibernated weekdays. - I feel myself sometimes a forsaken Nobody, who, in the bosom of empty alley streets, runs like a scarecrow in the agony of chubby scarecrows, who can only weep for the incomprehensible injury he has suffered, and if fate helps him, perhaps he will land himself on the shore at the cost of accepting understandings!

Now a desert island of woods cherishes me. The sweat of Wraith-dreams pours; my hollow-eyed decades are drenched in their cowardice. In my silence-increasing muteness I bell rather to myself...