Imaginary End

Seeing,
And believing.

Listening,
And understanding.

Living,
And experiencing.

Existing,
and ending.

Not too much to write,
not too many words to describe.
Not too much love to smile,
not too many friends to look up to.

Never enough is the pursuit for the horizon,
Never was it enough the search for knowledge.

****************************************************

A flower,
among all others,
stopped for a minute,
and started to wonder how everything came to be.

A flower,
among all others,
asked to believe,
because now she was seeing,
the result of a long moment,
which seems it is meant to last for ever.

A flower,
among all others,
started to experience,
with the faint hope of riding on the journey,
which she thought everyone else was on.

This flower,
among all others,
pale as a dead man's skin.
felt she was only existing,
which made her think that the end was always there,
waiting,
right by the corner.

An End,
with a bottle of whiskey in one hand,
and a burning cigarette in the other,
waiting to collect its hourly harvest.

*******************************************************

Not much needs to be said nowadays.
I have once written something,
not on paper,
not on the internet,
but somewhere where it will always remain there.

No point to be in denail anymore,
No point in asking Peter for explanations,
No point in seeking answers in what cannot be solved.

Maybe it's illogical,
maybe its rational.

But it feels as everything only makes sense in my own world.

*******************************************************

Doing his daily homework,
Peter can only now do his conclusions on what he has learned,
on what he has been taught to do.

Doing his daily homework,
I always find myself drawn vaguely on the yellowish sheets of paper,
which have been reading what was written on them for years,
and,
even though, I inside the page,
I try to erase,
I try to write,
It seems that the etching is now, there for good.

Being drawn in the way I am,
makes me ask myself why Peter sees me like this.

But then,
again, the time for questions is gone,
since what was written back then,
was written for a purpose,
and it is there to stay until I meet it,
sooner or later.

*******************************************************

Everyday I look at the palm of my right hand,
wishing that I can foretell my own future.

But all I see,
is nothing but another day,
put on top of a pile.

A pile of effort,
hope,
explanations,
which would eventually all sum up to today,
to now.