Penultimate ode

Not allowed to rest, neither to fulfil the prophecy of inherent fears. Molten, entangled bodies of meaninglessness, weeping over the remnants of irrelevance. A meadow of bitter-tasting flowers, all withered just before finding salvation, facing the eternal gloom of limbo. Stars and moons cast shadows that protect us from death. Say goodbye, my two lonely friends, for you will grow from the roots of berry bushes and apple trees. No life-saving juice is dripping from the honeycombs anymore. With ghostly fingers, the anti-ouroboros wrote about vulnerability in cryptic writing. Reanimated shells, shattered with the mourning for an archaic and indispensable void. All is beyond loss, beyond the evaporating incense of apocalyptic self-realisation.

A non-integrated self, desired in the present, left in the past, walking with a cloud of thunder and a joker face into 15 years of future. Creating a tomb for romantic ideas to avoid thinking about tomorrow. Defeating the daily giants, still haunted by the enchanted souls of the nonbinary. An empty, lifeless castle covered in poison ivy, and sweet Oreo cookies appeal to the absence inside. Damp and doubtful masks falling in a space of nothingness with punk music playing in the background. Guts exploding, spikes growing from within, contributing to the erasure of meditative ashes.

Text: Martin Maeller