IRC-Galleria

Sense faced defeat in a second
against an overflowing army of sweet nothings
which marked the beginning to an endless search
of whomever capable of explaining themself
and conjuring answers concerning the stream
unconscious of all the whoes and the whies

This was only a twist in the rhyme
a desperate attempt upon pushing back the waves
each representing an ideal voice of understanding:
how it all should work
what the message was supposed to be like
how much meaning there was possible to be found
none whatsoever this time

To haunt within the missing frame
likewise what couldn't be traced further down
than to the point where emptiness was created
from something even less

Untouched and pure to the end
not a stain of curiosity on the surface
sometimes pretending to hide something beneath
just to forget the freedom of inconsiderate ravings
or showing the audience how words can be directed
at everywhere and nowhere at once

I am much more comfortable drowning

"Too much frustration
since he first failed in creating
a picture of words, of himself
pure like a young dove
now hurt in the wing
carried far wherever winds blew
until his muse had lost her name

How can't you read the signs of disappointment
written across his face?
framing downcast eyes that see beauty only in the most ordinary of things
and ignore everything else

To feel capable of new creations
even the kind still possible to be
unchained in a language known only to worn artists:
blinded painters, deafened musicians
and muted poets such as himself

To open more pages in unfinished stories
that have several chapters missing

Before his muse and he are parted"