Rilke

'We discover that we do not know our part; we look for a mirror; we should like to remove our make-up and whatever is false and be real. But somewhere a forgotten piece of our disguise still adheres to us; some trace of exaggeration remains in our eyebrows; we do not realise that the corners of our mouths are twisted. And thus we go about, a laughing-stock and a demi-being, with neither a real existence nor a part to play-act.' Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, Rainer Maria Rilke

everything has to be new every time,

bone shattering renewal.

whatever happened to fixing broken things?

i knew a girl once who loved me, but i didn't want a broken love

so i gave it away for my mental health.

But my mental health lasts less long than my waiting heart

who gets older and softer and wishes for old things,

things that were imperfect but ... were we really that different?

things are grainy and thoughts disappear.

we all think we want adventure until we run out of bread,

then we want home, and glowing lights and bedships.

so we go back to the river, but its not as bright

and the water shudders not shimmers and there's

no coastline or hillscape to paint.

instead, we go to sleep again and spark a new dream

which flickers and excites us until we wake up

and realise we're back in our cradle with no one to hold.