at the end
only the headlines matter
all the details are forgotten
the pimple on the left side of the cheek
the mole on the that furrow where tears pass
the skin tag on the pelvis which you keep touching
after a night of sex with another
person other than the usual pulsating creatures
around you,
at the end, it does not matter anymore
whether you were the bee
or the flower or that firefly who always wished
for the night sky and the full moon,
what matters most
are those bold titles archived at the end of your journey
you are in a rush for another destination
there is even no time for another cursory reading
of your life,
the past lives you like to forget
you want to get out finally from the circle of the cycle
only until
if you deserve it when you know what not to take with you.
These are poetic experiments. Man's quest for the poetic element never ceases. He is always caught in the eye of awe. He does not make the rules now. The rules change depending on the emotion that time and space feed him. He must see everything with his wide eyes gaping. The beginning of poetry too, like philosophy is wonder. Look and see. Do not stop wondering You are the poet. And everything is poetry. Wonder. Wander.
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