The planet is an open mouth.
It yawns and rests-shaking and shivering in the cold.
Your life is not my life. Your life is a life that is begone,
And not forgotten-your life is written in the pages of the unforeseen,
The computers that do not compute anything but of mice and men.
People are shocked by the sea of faces that span out before us by
Thousands of flowers opening, yawning-you think you know, but you were
One of the first, the first of thousands, of millions that spread before us like
Unforgotten eyes, the eyes of the untold. I am not who I am.
My mother is a bittersweet taste in the eyes of sight, and the world is like me-
I am trapped in the world that is cold and dark, it is like a cage of nothing.
Where is the old world? Why are people staring, glaring at me-like the night I can’t see.
I am shadowy river, I am the dim and the dark and the clouds. Clouds scurry
Behind me, before me. My father is not here-he was never here, he was a shadow of himself, a glimmering cloud.
The dream was something else that glimmers in the dark. You don’t know that these trees
You don’t know that eyes are staring, like dim forgotten eyes that are breathing and distant as time is distant in this nothingness that I am or what I shall be. The wind is not my breath; the eyes that will not see.
I am the dark, and the waves are bending…
My mother does not share the same sentiment, and she is lost in the shadow of herself,
Lost as if the tides are lost.
This is not my life.