22 Jul 2014

I, the ashes of which form my body,
breathe in another last breath,
ending after ending neverending,
so many tunnels I’ve flown through.

I, the dreaming of which is my soul,
play at being awake these daylight
moments, when things happen,
and it is so very easy to pretend.

I, the crying of which is my heart,
shoot myself in the foot again,
which being a metaphor doesn’t
explain anything about me.

I, the desire of which fills me,
imagine things I can only say
fill me with fear if they should
happen, or in fact, if they don’t.

I, the oblivion of which drives me,
cannot say I ever wanted to
die, just wondered if meaning
existed somewhere… else.

posted by John H. Doe @ 10:10 pm

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