Seasonal colds make everyone think
that they’re dying, but they feel more alive
when it happens to somebody else.
After the violent phlegm clearing struggles
that trickle out in random intervals,
we all remember that we live within the mud.
A smear of it on some wall we can’t conceive,
but still we believe that in this abstract chaos
there is something to be found out in the dark.
A glimpse of the hands that hold us here,
submerged in water pure and clear.
The energy of the tide stirs generations.
The moon now one big open eye
following our daily lives.
It bought the world for nothing and we let it.
The young take walks alone at night
and dwell on all the fading light,
to find out what the world won’t let them see.