Wednesday, January 1, 2014



There is no ground
Everything blurs 
In the speed of motion
The wind cuts through 
Like freshly sharpened knives

Those feet
They prod on
A ground
which doesn't exist
They try to tip-tap
On air, a missing land.

Those eyes
They strain to
See where they
Crash, collide, smash
They don't close.

Those hands
They don't 
Flail, they have
Accepted what
Belongs to them.

Those lips
They move
But no noise
No sound,
The wind deafens.

The mortal
waits, prepared
the mortal
breathes the 
Final time.

The mortal 
flexes the feet,
closes the eyes,
clasps the hands
And smiles.


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