It's really hard to believe
in
an unconsciousness
that you're not aware of
in some distant way,
similar to your repeated
reflection
falling away
in a hall of mirrors,
or one of those loops
that keeps on keeping on
in your though-patterns
but it must be what I wasn't
conscious of in 1824,
when Beethoven, deaf
and lead poisoned
and alcoholic
wrote his Ninth Symphony,
or what I won't be conscious of
in 2371
Fri vers (Fri form)
av Ingvar Loco Nordin
Publicerad 2021-10-20 12:47