While deathly sirens are swinging doors,
you can find your way throughout the world and still not know how to act.

On the days when being is unbearable,
when time accelerates and movement has no pattern,
where the deceitful sound of the world forces its false
predicaments upon you,
you cannot know how to act.

Nothing is created out of nothing.
And then you have nothing; you have it all.

Repeatedly shipping the breakfast of your day, your gut
has no feeling. You have no feeling but of the paste in your mouth
and the dryness of your lips.

Having no appetite for the world, you're skipping out on its tastes,
its bits of tastes, novel but not new.