The past is an eternal loop.
Nothing has changed or
Life rushes on and I follow.
Waking to a shining morning ,
spilled drops are from the sky
and not my eyes.
I still tell lies and say that I am joking.
A maelstrom of moods, I am irony.
My galaxy is mapped in memory,
my body etched with constellations.
The alps have loosened their foothold
and the current of the sea pulls outward,
the shore of little interest without you.