my crowded master of isolation
the higher you get, the lower you feel
you’d built a temple, and I saw later
you staring at the mosaics of filth
the witchcraft alloyed by displeasure
the ardent ambition to flutter above
can one turn red into azure?
can one return from obsession to love?
lost in persuasion, drown in a fountain,
when will you dare to be found at last?
„you are the world”— a rich voice cut in,
grinding your own world, your world to the dust
neither pale darkness, nor rough sheen
neither placebo, nor magic cure
what I considered to be a disruption
is far more close to convenience pure