Antiquity

I am nothing, yet something is keeping me from being everything.Shrouds of glass disguise the fasting trio, passing through the world.Steps impossible to ignore: intently I listen to the sea without a face.

Upon a cool breeze I glide over roads left to dismay.Beauty fills the tired lungs, hope of the palm trees.

If I were to see, a delicate bird fly leisurely across the sky, I would jump on his sesnitive wings: "Take me to the home of branches, where hunger is forever infantile and thirst never the song of age."

He turns away: everything turns away.The angel with the taste of demons carrying the banner of the 'greater good', wishe me well.Cruelty! Daylight cruelty! You know I am sick so how can you wish me well? Flaming arrows of irony whose touch leaves a cold wound.

An art has just been invented in the handmaidens golden curls: it seeks not to imitate Nature, instead it toys with death.I shall become its master!

Ah yesterday touches me, tomorrow fists me; they collide...I create! Frost will turn streets of fire into waterfalls, alligators shall slide down one by one, sweating the dew of past morns.

Why does it take everyone so long to answer me? And why can't I learn they never will?

Gliding over a fresh breeze: a breeze of drough, I dream of Genghis Khans and Alarics; I see myself carrying their standard yet their hordes chase me down.Decapitation inevitable.I cannot run away from them, I submit, Oh always I submit!

Only fools chase the foolish.O orators do not be jealous of this wit: it was born from the womb of pity, and will one day drown its maker in a moon-lit mediterrenean.

Even geography is against me, all of the roads take me directly into this dry hell; the shade is on the wrong side.Everything bores me, everything brings me down, but I shall try not to fall, for I know their will be no one to pick me up.

The hours bring down the veil upon the sun's tired face: nothing stays the same, yet change is nowhere to be seen.And the world, finds it impossible to sleep, it can only dream on its feet creating nothing but illusions.

If I were to be my own spirit I would see what Venus is hiding from me.And I would chase it like a broken man, and dress its beauty in feathers of adored peacocks.

Nowhere to be seen.

Nothing to be found.

Eternity waits to be held, but eternity is a mere succession of seconds, and seconds pass me by without promise or belief.Antiquity begins at modernity's end, forests grow when cities die: can the little child on the swing ever care?