But I’m glad there is no CTRL-ALT-DEL button.
To wipe away these experiences,
These inner carvings,
Fine etchings,
Subtle tapestries,
Of foetal longing,
Of un-beloning.
Of whitewash atomising,
Of deteriorating autumn leaf,
Melting winter snowflake,
Of magnolia petal bashfulness.
No, I don’t despair my fortune any more,
Nor covet another’s,
Not even death can be rid of any of it,
How can it, when soil returns to soil,
And it reunites the hurt of all mankind.
We’re all created in the pre world as souls, unhurt,
We’re put on this earth to hurt,
So we can fertilise it when we pass,
With our experience.
He who hurts more,
Blossoms the most fragrant.


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