When my chewed-up bones will soon be laid before decomposing worms and beetles, will and blind luck will still flicker on top of the rich, undeserved booty, when they have already been buried.
Even in the last hour, the beating pericardium rarely fades among layers of dust and ashes enclosed in urns. They will also voluntarily copy some of my pessimistic manuscripts as a hobby or for fun. Concise lines of verse wink and look at each other like accomplices.
One final day, when I am paying attention to something other than the haunting consciousness of Death, the Pisces will easily cut off my shipwrecked fate, and I have no doubt that the three fate goddesses will be sad to the core, when instead of words of warning and admonition, melancholic drums beat...
It could have been a blessed folly, a mischievous childish joke only for those who definitely wanted to know him. But those who dared to open their hearts with an honest heart easily understood that an abandoned child was crying and wailing inside.
I have always been a ghost-soul hiding in embezzled lines of poetry, who was always chased by trouble, hell-sorrow. A difficult series of ordeals. A bargain and an unworthy broken promise pleased the dash of vain hope; secretly trembling-terrifying heartbeat hidden in red meat.
Even in the rolling cages of squirrels - careers and successes can no longer be bought or exchanged as easily as in the current curve of Time. It's as if they were constantly running electricity into my troubled nerves, to torture and disappoint me at the same time. They are even afraid if it is a good omen, a conscious end, because then cheap mass-produced comfort is still available as a human-smelling grace!