We always searched for the center,
the dark hole of a naked mind.
World moved in concentric rings,
like onion peels.
I scream at myself,
on the absurdity of finding,
A truth which had expired.
If the trees could talk in the end,
and bail out the saint of fallen apes
I will start measuring,
the deafness of a storm,
its eyes squinting
and whose deep genitalia,
had delivered a still birth.
Why should we mourn
for the unfolding disaster?
Loneliness and despair
are not the big themes.
And nobody cares to listen
to the ripped confessions.
A purple patch appears on the green heart.
