The fight is harsh
Reluctant to concessions
The spirit of the time has become an agenda of preservation
Below, is the backwater
That I scent the morning, as if
I stand with the decisions pulling towards myself my own convalescence
I hold on to myself, this is not much
I do not know what part will ensure me with its care
Obstinatly, I treat myself from hour to hour
Never getting over it
Messy though imperturbably attached to my wish of tearing
Everything is in debate between what keeps me
Celestial body, muscular efforts
Daily intake of elk and physical emotions
And there, behind, acting as an experienced madam
My heaviness
Struggle to follow me
Struggle to believe me
Struggle to please me
My struggle to be moved when I see me
Sometimes so heavy that the strides of the run sink into oblivion
What misses misses
That is, whatever I want to master
A fact
The rest, my unshakable will, is only a badly fixed prosthesis
When it moves a little, I see, I see
Aphasic empty spans I watch with fascination

May 2015