hemlock170374

Raging within,
the power we give
to our own illusions,
conscious as ever
of the poison we swallow
still always stubbornly sure
that the taste can't always be the same;
spawning from illusions,
that's another illusion
and the taste is often the same.

What makes a great music?
What makes the harmony
of the souls who resonate with each other?
Is it the same intelligence
or the same sensitivity,
is it merely the lost memories
and the desire to live them again?
And what can stop the apparent harmony,
what can break even the longing for poison
and bring shallowness and sudden silence
even between the most brilliant minds?

Time changes everything that exists,
of course,
time turns everything into something else.
But what of the forces,
conscious and unconscious,
that pervert and disfigure entirely
the face of a dream?
They are not as easy to accept
and never will be.

What if one would still want to understand and believe,
no matter how evident and dangerously real
the quicksands of these thoughts actually are?
One would only experience
that romanticism is a dangerous trap of the mind,
for it disappeared from this world
and therefore brings you
to a place that does not exist
and from which no exit exists.

Let us open our eyes forever
and be happy with what's real
and keep us away from the traps
of what seems beautiful
but simply and painfully
does not exist.