People to me feel like shades,
They come and go by sun's blink,
At last it seems they never were,
Each step, monotonous, echoing.
The sound is piercing through me.
Like a knife, dicing the onion and carrot.
But then this knife drops, your heart jumps,
Are you wounded? Did the blade catch your feet?
If so, no longer be able walk nor stay,
If not, speak nothing more of it. None.
The monotonous steps are just like that knife,
Soothing when acting on something. Stairs.
Platform. Forget the park. Beach. No.
I told myself I'll only stand twice.
And though I can move freely, I remain. On the bench.
Witnessing countless posterity walking by,
All the steps of the first more flat.
Why? Are we growing sharper in tone, in thought?
So grow yea sharp every drop bleeds ears!
Eat silence, foul mind! Hence I am here sat.
To no end at all, am I sat looking over the platform.
None can see me, nor feel my touch. Nor hear.
Well, fuck them. These are the people moving by me.
Let it then, they stand and I'm shifting back,
And all the stones bite my wind with luck,
They became one with the wind. As that child is.
The car is undone to metal, all armour me shine,
To no end at all, my bench is carrying me,
To no end at all, I didn't care nor how I should do.
That's the pill of remedy. Not caring.
That was the song of the small pebble,
It hit me very well that. My head hit, full stop.
Then I saw the memory once again,
It never left, it was simply a reality frozen.
Hence these shades are no more.
Category: Avant-garde
Where objects become the words of their own.
