We are all dust in the eyes of overwhelming love called dementia.
We are puzzle pieces that destiny never count for.
We are the gods of glass, and the gods of ice, and the gods of the vine.
We are microbes of existence on a miniature scale.
We are born of the same dust, thrown into the eyes of existence.
We are lost souls like the flowers in the oceans of thunderstorms.
We are the dispersion of light in the blood drops, the radiation of the same divine spectrum
We are continuously studying dissection on our own brain, under the protection of an illusory love.
We are the puppets of the “in vitro” war, the slaves of our own nightmare.
We are the sarcastic blame of today and tomorrow.
We are the gods of pleasure, the gods of pain, and the gods of the world, the gods who have stirred the divine comedy.
We are living crosses between heaven and earth.
We are like “pluperfect”, a discontinuous present.
We are born to breathe the souls of others
We are born to be a tomb next to another tomb to can whisper words of love.
We are good only as answers, to meaningless questions.
We are immobilized in trolleys with four seasons.
We are seven billion clones, born of the same word, carrying the same war to maintain our own identity.
… (Snowdon King / Ionut Caragea)