You aren’t writing.
A snake bit me
It followed me across the Pyrenees
The snake of opposites.
It wants me to achieve
Or perhaps it is just here
To play the game of layers and cards
To chop away at a rock whose shape i have not yet recognised
A rock which is by far not ready to yield
A fig tree which is certainly not yet coming to fruition
Even though time is slow and
Age feels old
Even though it is borrowed.
Feeling old as a sign of borrowing life
Instead of entering into the heart of the rock
And finding the snake
Reminded of the planet of both vision and delusion
Trying to evade the grounded, suffocating signs of time.