Poetry & Existentialism

musings on loneliness

sylvia plath, nickie zimov, charles bukowski, masashi kishimoto, haruki murakami, holly warburton, charles bukowski, the beatles, nigel van wieck, marta zamarska, sylvia plath, van gogh

Edward Hopper

I was so very tired and sorrowful. I think I was suffering of too much soul.

Through hills the dawns were opening their lids and their tiredness bloodshot eyes.

Lost – I asked myself: Sun, how do you still feel the mad joy of rising?

And in that sleep ridden morning as with lead steps I was wandering through a hidden corner I found a cradle. There, the spiders were weaving their tiny worlds, and cavities were grinding its stillness.

I gazed at it with a mind wide open. It was the cradle, where a fate wrinkled hand once swung my first sleep and perchance my first dream.

With my nostalgia’s fingers I felt bit by bit, bit by bit, the past like blinded and not understanding why, I then collapsed, sobbing, as I began weeping above my cradle.