A poet thought he would write the greatest poem in his last day of mortality,
just before death.
So he waited all his life through the twisted monogamy of this world.
He waited and he waited…
He wrote some usual words when it seemed impossible to hide in a dark room and think nothing…
He chose evenings of cheap liquor and instant music over social gatherings to talk about art and all.
A walk along the green lights, yellow lights…and all of a sudden he could see that beautiful northwester slouching towards him…
His wait was over, the prodigal friend came…
The sound roared…the remembrance, the significant absence…
Everyone heard that one gunshot…that one fallen bee’s last leap towards smoke and fire.
And he could manage to write only two sentences…
‘ the greatest of work happened while waiting for the best work to come, it’s like wrong hookers blowing you in right moments. Anyway that shit is gone…now I am entering in fictions.’
What a wasted fucker he was.

…………………………………………………………….

Painting: Roswitha Klotz.

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