mushroom growing in an empty field

For those times, today long gone and flattened by the weight of time, like contours of the earth seen from a high-flying plane, still had varying depths then, to the eye of memory; the past, still fresh but already strange, was amazing.”

Simone De Beauvoir

Drowning in dense pools of drivel
All words are preposterous and discourse is mud.

We are past golden eras of Tomorrows bright,
Where dawns of Mirth used to knock on our eyelids —

Now voiceless mouths whisper in our ears
All the stories of the unhappened futures —

Like ourselves on that afternoon
Where verses died in our hands

Dissolving into black glimmering dust.


Photo by Andreas Wagner


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