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Chosen to hide in the shade
he is constantly afraid because he doesn't believe the lie
which is easier to buy than what is truly ahead
a warning never read to any of them but him:
"don't trust the beam that calls to you from afar!
she's only a man-made star"

But their sun hasn't opened her eyes
somewhere in the disguise they'll be shown a nice surprise
he can't save their lives because the others are in love
with the face that's watching from above
and touching the needs of all those within her reach
while the murder in her mind
is not for the scared one in denial
because the rest of his kind
are too stupid and blind
to the image of death behind that all-seeing smile

*

A sudden flash in the distance
and he no longer listens to the voice of resistance
the seductress is awake, darkness is gone
he has become one with the obedient swarm
tricked by a gentle welcome
movement of wings on his either side
flown towards the end and closer to their bride
his rebellious spirit has now given up the fight
another one has found the light

A body of six legs is breakable from the inside
even small insects are capable of suicide

Head first into the fire
no fear, or else it will burn
no water, or else you won't learn
when naked the pain passes through
when protected you remain vulnerable

If faced in the heart
even the most violent of flames die

One
two

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"