Standing at the centre of the World

He would stand at the centre of the world and shout. No one would hear his words, and no one would want to as well. A roaring, tormented scream from the centre of a desert, the middle of nowhere familiar to mankind.

The train came and went, ringing its familiar tone, ringing its strange tone.

Does she hate me?

In the castle of nothingness there is a black room, with black windows and black curtains. Black is his favourite colour, with all colours merging together: The envious red, the cold blue, the sick green, the diseased yellow. Placed inside was a set of armour, of steel and lead. A sword as well, and why not.

The train came and went, raising up the gusts of cold steel, peeling away bits and bits of his skin.

Do they hate me?

The bell in the chapel rings every day, reminding him... there is time. There will be time for everything. Time for waking up, time for work, time for harvest, time for rest, time for dinner, time for sleep. All tabulated in a course of river known as time, rippled by the percussive rings.

The train came and went, increasingly.... threateningly...

She hates me.

Ghosts are already dead, and cannot be killed again. There lives a ghost exactly in his heart. What should he do? He can do nothing, but eternally fuel this ghost until it grows out of his body, shrouding him in dust. The ghost becomes him, and he becomes it.

The train came and went, without mercy, without a slight glimpse of regret.

They hate me.

Eternally slippery, the floor is eternally slippery. It may not occur to you, but he is exceptionally mindful of that. Every day he would look out of the window, and all that comes to his mind would be something about the weather. Nothing else.

The train came and went, twisted by the fabric of space.

You hate me.

And more. And more trains.



I hate myself.

I hate her.

I hate him.

I hate.






Strange.

Party

Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

There was a man under the great tree
Sitting and reading philosophy

He would stand up and see the crowd
Dancing and discussing
From the atom to the universe

He would say his greetings
And join for a shot of whiskey
Or any other bubble that blurs your body

He would tell them his name
His specialty, his job, his story
And everyone would be pleased

He would dance, even if he can't
And forget about his existence
He would be a speck, not a man

He would leave his phone inside
And put down his favourite work of Plato
Stop calculating, and dim his watch

He would know that the next morning
would be better.

He put down his book,
Look up to the night
The so very indifferent black sky
Only lit by the phone in his hand
And the lamp by his bed with a black duvet.