staring at the sun
you wonder
whether the pandemonium of colours
spiralling ahead of your eyes
is your breed of nirvana
or just another lost universe
dampened by evanescence.
gazing at the knife in your hand
you speculate
whether the dripping blood
is yours
or the dead man's on the floor.
more fundamentally,
you muse
whether the enigmatic masterdom
really gives a damn.
probing his frozen eyes
you surmise
that this impulsive bloodshed
only disturbs
the insecure maligner,
the suppositious righteous,
the characterising bureaucrat
and his deluded support.
only the angels,
the sweet, sweet angels
understand that it
changes nothing.
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