looking with my myopic eyes,
once an axiomatic view of my world,
becomes a blurry vision of this moist midnight.
what conversations did they have?
what dreams did you make?
rachmaninov visits me with a quiet venegence
as if he refuses to die, forcing me to listen differently.
I am perhaps, left with no alternative,
but to suffer from a despair of possibility,
the lack of actuality except the actuality of plural possibilities.
sitting at a corner, lazing around, walking minimally, thinking excessively, looking blindly
and feeling all too tired to be
then I realise, with a strange vehemence
that I know absolutely nothing,
and hence, with nothing, do nothing
be nothing.
and the dictum nothing will come out of nothing
becomes something so absurdly true
so much so that,
even if I can't rid myself of myself
I can, at least, feel
and know the very least, that I can love.
because I can still see things immediately;
what matters are those at hand
even as they die before you, in your arms
sleep tight.