It Isn'T In the Time
it isn't in the time, neither in the dream
nor in the feeling's vagueness
but it is to what uncertainty
as well the ungovernable hopelessness
- which here outline the notes
of a forgetful page, like a mark
will be going to melt away in the snow -
nearlier fix themselves onto, it is to that
you hand over, what of yourself
the memories leave behind and what never
admired you won't be able to gaze at
anymore... but it's the instant
it is the instant which snows of memories
ancient and lost, ravagely fascinating
memories, unforgettable emotions which
bloodily plunge their cutting sword into
your soul, and you, you aren't able to bear
your bundle of rags and doubtful intents
further on anymore, as under the dismayed
light of the misted illuminance life vanishes
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