They are always around, right across the next bend
and then the next
and then the next,
like lost voices echoing on lost walls.
The best and the worst
are always clubbed together
to keep the calm fogs fixed across certain timeless brows, ever knit in anger,
or perhaps remorse.
then there are these books of wisdom, firmly closed
Pandora pirouetting through open and shut monstrosities
such as trees, nests and houses burning,
through flames that turn blue in love and pain
faces of ghosts that come up and fade
faces of foxes in foglight across a deep, pale valley
butchered by mirages, killed by the chimes.
all because the mirrors are always too damn many
and the humans are always too damn confused
and all roads lead to too much shit for one life, half a reckoning
it's like a threesome in the snow, too many colours
and then mist eats them all
and then the foxes and the leopards come out from the caves
and funny little people come out from the caves of mind
and they all light a fire, a happy one
where Pandora doesn't matter
and nothing else does. Such shit we go through to keep our minds off those hounds
as they wait for their turn, in placid certainty
blue, in love, pain and hunger
big, like the world with all its stars and time
inching closer by the hour, like all cold razorblades do when all stuff comes together and cease to be anything but all stuff coming together.