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| http://www.danoah.com/2011/10/the-fall-of-man.html |
I don't know to where I go. I create.
A nebula operative is my life ,
adventitious condensing stellar mass
built up stars, romances blossomed.
I felt, I sensed disarming, ideal loves,
of which make you get enough,
of which keep you filled,
such that you think they never come back,
and when they are lost, you doubt,
but you deny that they were wrong.
The worst shock, the larger vortex,
the terrible temptation, as always
the inopportune, the incongruous, the to nowhere,
the flaming, the desperate love.
The one which comes uninvited
to carry away any structured paradise of yours
which destroys any of your balanced data.
The one which inevitably ends abruptly, in deadlocks,
for those to whom the logic exceeds the feelings,
to the souls to whom the balancing of their galaxy,
depends on the sacrifice of their personal liberty
depends on the metron which they put in the measureless,
depends on the weakness in front of the finality.
Or I should say it depends on the nemesis...
