sink

Oaks of time

I do not comprehend
trees
that spring from
the mind
with branches of ink
onto invisible paper –
the future

when did we
all become
dumb poets
composing
impossible fictions

nothing can be known
and oaks
stretching firm and stable
limbs
into tomorrow
do not really
exist.

Nihilistic Poetry

One thought on “sink

  1. ‘nothing can be known’

    One thing is known and pervading though. As the art that brims your hollows, smearing the emptiness of a webpage, and pouring down the receptors of my widening iris: the only thing tangible enough to be known – a state of ambiguity.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s