Poisoned

  
Our overrun lives will be ruled by an agitated striving. Like a pile of cake, we are creeping closer and closer into the lives of others, to be part of something that was never ours to begin with.

Mud-flows of mere Being, still with us, confess and tremble - whether our hesitant or negative words are fearful virgin-white. In cold nooks the startled eternity loves to play hide-and-seek.

Existence at once plucks and grinds our skulls with ten nails, cleaving them. Surely it often happens that we might be better, nobler, if we could learn to nurse iron.

We have so much of the elixir of our pains, that it lives in us like a scar or an ulcer. A lasting rest in obscurity can seldom warm us, for in the littleness that awaits us we must learn to appreciate the industrious daily.

For there are now more and more vultures, who want the new liver chunks at any price. Even a rotting clover or a wormy apple might be good for something. The husk is melting on us like a hard, pathetic nutshell. With a heart attack-judgment it's time to send a pump-juice early.

A dim afterlife settles on our plundered eyes. Everything outside has turned to sheer anxiety. Our memories, our romance, suddenly barely speak to us and we can't listen to their words. It would be good to really look at the whole of what lies beneath before the leakage of that behaviour.

Together we feel the possible, hypocritical risk of blindness outside, yet we do nothing about it. We are deliberately poisoned by all the hopelessness of the alparian!