...running mind/motionless life

Even the weather is following me
the clouds tell stories
they give air to the lungs of my dreams
Numbers of beings, my guiding team
one of them worries
I'm not what I seem


Who are we really, we' ll never tell
but 'never' means nothing
until we reach the driving wheel
until we describe what is that we feel
and our sigh is drastic
when the existence sees its secular swirl

Meeting new version of my closest selves
I now know what all had meant
We're so fucking special compared to a void
waiting in the drug store like a human android
and then we're dead
wasted life down the sink of lost point

Discussions with no one reach higher perceptions
old dreams are now evidence
of my kind of creating that must be in form
as I seek for suitable words for my poem
I color the junk of my energy clearance
like dark art washed with a waterfall foam