flakes of self

particles of self

this life
is a flight
that with increasing
accuracy I’ve been able
to determine
is nothing but a free fall
and the sensation of flying
is produced by the lucky fortuity
that there is nothing to crash into
in this way, we drift down
spiraling through fields
of emptiness
and nobody knows
when it will end
or if it should end at all
so I’ve started to snap off
little pieces of myself
and blow them into the dark
till one day
there will be thousands of flakes
erratically swaying
in the atmosphere of life
that has no
destiny.
 
 
 

contemporary poetry

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