Oaks of time

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

when did we
all become
dumb poets
impossible fictions

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

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.

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