This is a poem of mine i found buried in an unfinished project called "A Happening at Weltanschauung":
He woke on hearing the sound of some fickle heart bled
Destined, interred an impossible slouch
Forecasting visions of the tiniest debt
To be paid with a few working hours.
Pleasure just stopping his attention removed
Noticing nothing but still the ambient sound
Is waking from waking like feet in a dream;
Or marking with smoke an uncrossable line?
Or touching the sky? Its dispassion that lifts;
Attractive to him who would willingly fall?
The fate of his hands seen by objectless eyes
Witnessing spheres contingent on whim
Dearest acceptance taking its course.
No loud overtures significate. Not a spotlight on the flight of a dove.
Though through cascading display he passes,
There's not a single answer to be had.
His melancholic beauty
Owned only by those that see him
Precludes any meaning to his life
And knowing not that he is theirs he drifts yet still as the stars do
Making faces at shit and astonished at death his mind collapses further.
