In that fleeting moment,
the night sky could have exploded.
Maybe, it did?

This transience of everything…
Seeking fluid freedom, outside and within
Traveling distances and wandering through your own being
Inwards, outwards, consciously, unconsciously…
Is that all?

Is there a meaning,
or an absolute absence of it?

Maybe poetry was created
so that our delusions remain well fed,
or was it the other way round?

I was told that there’s only one poem that you write,
just one poem, all your life…
…in different words and phrases.
I think it must be called
The Perpetual Fleetingness

Sometimes, a jumbled up Unpoem
is all that saves the memory of a memory.
So be it.


The soul is trying to heal itself. Was it even hurt in the first place, I wonder. It heals like a physical wound. You only feel the pain a few days later. The pain reaches a peak and slowly the scab formation starts. Scabs itch. Unbearably. There is no going back. We’ll either sail through or be perpetually stuck here. Don’t touch the scab, you tell yourself. I wonder if this will leave a scar. Does the soul get scarred at all?