As I see my world fall apart, this child of mine, I'm his!
A tantrum after another then a third ad infinitum.
It cries, it shouts. In its own little way.
It cannot think the way I think but who can?
It still traps me, I'm his!
Are we not all controlled by our children, our projects,
do we not want a better for them?
A better what?, a world.
My child is my planet,
it is my project and my playground.
So wise I think I am, so vain.
It is no more mine than my imagination's.
It is my reality. My reality is what I see
and to me it is no more.
Reality is subjective. It is mine,
like this world. But
this world is not. I own it not,
I play like a cat plays with the mouse.
Tough love? Torture.
Do i respect it or tease it must.
I use it, my child. For his 'benefit',
just mine..,
I control it and...
It dies.
When a fly is in a jar it dies.
Is it out of boredom- trapped?
Does it stop because it can no longer envisage future, or life?
Does it die because of suffocation or just from inattention, a lack of opportunity.
My world, my child, I'm his!
The lid well screwed now,
for time it has been trapped.
Will it suffocate or will it open?
Pandora. A world of beauty now, destroyed.
I'm not talking space but myth.
But does it open itself, is it open?
Its power immense, its beauty- skin tense. All skins.
Yours and mine but not those of death, but dying?
Diseased, increasingly wrinkly, its tone of death.
But who's?
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