March. One equinox has gone.
Thoughts swirling but in a fading spring
when flowers start to bloom
if they have not died in winter flames…
Writing films in my head with a held-back pen –
Stolen songs orchestrate the score.
Cherry blossoms make me blush no more…
Every now and then
my presence is no longer felt.
The sunlight awakens
every now and then.
play a dirge for the dire thoughts that are too relentless…
I laugh with a katana five millimeters
left of my heart,
Admiring how torments come from what may never be art!
Who dances to dirges
and what kinds of dances would those be?
We all know the sun doesn’t set.
We all know the sun doesn’t rise.
We make and take same illusion to relish
our cages repeatedly
because we are tired, being the ones in constant motion…
Who said illusions aren’t real?
Who murders dreamers?
Who rapes visionaries while covering their faces with the stinking clothes they took off to violate?
I wrote this song for I think we’re ending
If we haven’t ended yet.
But this in no elegy
for it is an ending that never ends and