A cloud stretches, beyond the edge of the rooftop of the neighboring building, it seems to me like a clutching fist trying to reach for the growing deterioration, that is yearning for providence at the center of the sky..
What a helpless fist... what a false saviour.. so indecisive.. my fist.. I pity the victim.
The sunken remains of what was once painfully rebellious against fatal nonsense, are now left to rust deep in the vast cavity of the sky, I, the beholder, can't help but mourn.
A ray of smoke, never seen anything like this before, smoke never formed such a solid shape...
Like a ray of light from a giant torch in a running sequence, to cast a heavy spot of light over the nearest jester.
The sky is purple, with a rampant taste of blood.
There's a flowing riot... every dawn, everything looks normal... but still I quiver every once in a while.
Crows show up whenever they feel like it... they always come uninvited.
Their recurring cries collide with my senses, my senses collapse and try to bleed out a meaning.
Cries of gloating? cries of sympathy? cries of threat? cries of pain?.. no reply, my senses are left so defeated.
The more this process reoccurs, the more I wilt.
I need to find a shelter, a firm ground.
What a helpless fist... what a false saviour.. so indecisive.. my fist.. I pity the victim.
The sunken remains of what was once painfully rebellious against fatal nonsense, are now left to rust deep in the vast cavity of the sky, I, the beholder, can't help but mourn.
A ray of smoke, never seen anything like this before, smoke never formed such a solid shape...
Like a ray of light from a giant torch in a running sequence, to cast a heavy spot of light over the nearest jester.
The sky is purple, with a rampant taste of blood.
There's a flowing riot... every dawn, everything looks normal... but still I quiver every once in a while.
Crows show up whenever they feel like it... they always come uninvited.
Their recurring cries collide with my senses, my senses collapse and try to bleed out a meaning.
Cries of gloating? cries of sympathy? cries of threat? cries of pain?.. no reply, my senses are left so defeated.
The more this process reoccurs, the more I wilt.
I need to find a shelter, a firm ground.
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| Le Corbusier's The open hand monument |
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