to the end of days

end of days poem

careless evenings
youth, dream, iron
with a fossilized joy in my face
I put on the chains
to await bitter destiny

it is freedom
far beyond art
it is an activity with no ideal
that I pretend to know

one day the hand that writes
transforms into rock
rock turns into sand
and that sand prolapses
into nothing

and a silent
gaze
is vestige
of vacuous past

in that haste
of a gamble
I fooled around with desire
noise and love,
reckless towards
the assemblage
of oblivion

 

Nihilis
tic Poe
try

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