How much longer will I have to fall
with large unthoughtful flakes
and how many steps will I extend
before I reach immortality?
Dragging myself like a nomad without a leg,
trembling in my hand, hungry and blind.

In all its splendour,
symmetrical and diaphanous,
the habitual illusion of meaning
intoxicates you with poetry.
Slowly cradles you at her warm breast,
but it constricts you, hurts you and lies to you.

It keeps you captive at her sweet lips
and it dissects you, opens you up, unravels you.

It dissolves you, transforms you, seals you in.

It squirms you, shadows you, fragments you.