Everything constructed strictly by humans lacks humanity.
The paradox of loving and the noble art of letting go.
The Goddess of being and the God without a name.
You try to hold on to new things, new hands, get attached, run away, write poetry, sing new songs, search for past lovers under new blankets, translate manuscripts of the who knows what abstract artist that nobody heard of.
Search for meaning inside of yourself when you my love, my life are just an empty shell.
He told me: you are a beautiful art instalation in this wasteland, and what I can offer is mainly a shadow of who I am.
But darling we're both hung on string,
Of everything
Of everyone,
You were my autumn,
You were my spring,
You became the end where I begin.
So hold me tightly and then let go, it's you that I love and it's you I don't know.
While you are asking for infinite
I merely want what is an end
I don't wish for the abyss
I can not pretend
I want to stop
And offer you
A jungle of dreams
That will never come true.
I can only fly
If I live inside of you,
My quiet rectangle
With dark brush strokes
My
accidental love
On the wrong angle.
