The somethings that you say to someones,
And sometimes the desperate anythings,
Do you think it’s to avoid that no one
Would be there to share your everythings?
It’s ok. We all do some things some times
That make us cringe and wish for anything else,
But it’s fine as long as it’s not every time.
Nothing lasts forever, anyways.
Just make sure that nothing makes you forget
That no one deserves you give your everything.
Until someone can handle anything of you,
Let this little something be a reminder to you.
The ancient pendulum strikes zero o’clock,
A flurry of loud silences sound,
The air is filled with nil numbers of questions
And so many answers, maybe twice,
Thrice, but slightly less than nought times.
It’s the time of the old witching hour,
The original one, when the sun dipped shadow
Humans passed through ghosts, breathing fire
And gods hide in corners, afraid.
What are you doing between time and existence,
Speaking in sharp, difficult shades?
You look through your ears, so stumbled,
Like nobody taught you how rude is to breathe.
Close your skin when you talk to your youngers,
Don’t you know how your lungs should behave?
You should have learnt butter from your future,
Has nobody told you to die low and wait?
Oh, go now, you know nothing at all.
Souls shouldn’t be out past zero o’clock.
You need weights holding you down
To not sink into the ground and disappear,
And balloons full of joy and laughter
To keep you from drifting on a breeze.
It’s a special kind of hell
To be so free, so unfettered,
That you see the bottom of the earth
When lying in your bed, looking for stars.
You’d think not knowing between
Up and down is terrifying. And it is.
But you learn the rules after a while
And discover you were better off not knowing
That the lowest pit of hell
Is so far above you that
Your neck starts to hurt
If you stare at it for too long.
And the floor isn’t any better,
The gilded staircase of heaven
Hanging just out of reach,
A jump too big to clear the gap.
The place between the corners of the rhombus
Is the most perplexing like that,
Collapsing space in a tight spiral
That brings the extremes together.
I guess you can only start crawling now
Until you get some distance
And can change your perspective again.
You might not get out the right side,
In that happy, peaceful place of rest,
But there’s always the long road around
That gets you there in the end.
Just start from the bottom –
It’s straight down above from here.
It’s easier to talk to numbers than names
When the number is the only one that matters,
A ‘one’ so special it needs no other label.
It’s easy to see the presence of other numbers
Shying away from his very existence,
Minutes dilating into hours, hours into days,
Flying away in an uncountable string,
Heartbeats jumping into and over each other,
Holding an infinity of feeling,
The concept of physical form starting to waver
When the two of you slip into one being.
I’m generally not a big believer into ‘the one’,
But whoever says mathematics is fixed?
Let it be a long string of different ones –
Just make sure than not talking to each
Is a concept as bad as dividing to zero.
It’s easier to talk to numbers than names,
Easier to talk to masses of people,
Where you are an integer among real numbers,
An unique identity in an abstract sense
But easily glossed over in the big picture.
It’s a strange equality of differences
Where the deviations always exist
But they do it so regularly that nobody cares.
There’s some expectation from neighbours
That you’ll keep to your approximate place –
This is why I like to be in a big set,
So the string of possibilities stretches
And I can sneak behind my closest numbers,
And speak, and do, and change
Without comment or supervision,
A fleeting act of rebellion
That doesn’t change the slightest the mean,
Doesn’t matter in any lasting way.