Gradual rotting

  
The fingers of our haste forehand bend the lead weights of our transgressions. In times of tormented cleverness, the mind is already caught up in the corticism. While some are in the depths of their souls, others are lounging, like dogs that want to chew their cud.

With agonizing joy they cosmeticize and mutilate each other. Unhappiness-almost for the umpteenth time the Universe wags a cautious finger. Wounded bodies in their pain trample on each other like the most insidious envious, and while the clots of the heart are rolled in honey, the green-glowing little jewels of hope hardly sweeten.

A married life sticks to us like years of worn underwear, and wide-eyed charm-mixers can dabble at will. Their darkness is public and lucid. The seeing eyes peer through their tiny keyholes at the details of the world.

The traitors and the bribe-takers can no longer be hidden by eternity. The tiny buttons of the soul are sooner closed to prying, curious eyes, precisely because visual vision has become too exhibitionistic. Among the seven-sealed Darides of their consolations, how low everything has become unspeakable.

Many are back to the basics, back to the roots, sifting, pushing, or listening. Those who have sworn an oath to the power of prosperity and economy are walking the nameless paths of moles. In their blind thoughts, knotted to them, there could no longer remain a glimmer to steer the lost souls in Existence towards new Beginnings.

Pondros, such crawlers, seldom if ever helped by their grating laundry.