Even the bleakest day
Had a taste of the present.
The present,
Back then,
Was a concoction
Of mellow mornings,
Followed by endless,
heightened nights.
Now it’s just me
And the future:
I am gnawing it away.
At least it will sharpen
my teeth.
Not a day goes by
Without someone telling me,
“Oh, you’re from…!”
Not a day goes by
without someone proclaiming,
“I know you, you’re this!”
‘This’, is nothing
Not pleasure,
Not haste.
No taste of present,
Not even of future.
‘This’ should be something,
But it’s not
Never will be.
‘This’ should be me,
And maybe it is,
A tiny bit.
But it’s not my lips,
It’s not my lungs,
It’s not my quirks,
It’s not my tongue,
It’s not my hands,
It’s not the crepuscular,
Beautiful faces,
That haunt me,
When I walk,
When I breathe,
When I remember that once I existed.
Somewhere,
A space,
Down Under
Where everybody is something
Nobody is nothing.
Deaf smiles mean nothing.
It’s easier to be mould
Than to be river.
It’s easier to drag down
Than to raise up.
It’s easier to be ‘this’
Than to be gone.
It’s not easier to be here,
Than to go back.
