A truth always unfelt anew,
lying somewhere in the Akashic Records:
Shakespeare, Proust, Goethe, Boccaccio,
yet we still suffer through it.
Fallen today, risen only yesterday, dying this way.
You give all you have and so much more
to see it vanish into where there is
there anything (left)?
Stealing somebody’s soul is the perfect crime.
Frozen in time, disintegrating rapidly,
cracking, dissipating, crying through the skies –
the earth stands still underneath broken clouds.
“Welcome to innocentless life,” I almost say
but then dare not; the horizon still weeps.