I have no purpose.
Save that which I set.
My watchword, the company I keep.
Mirrors in the faces that surround me.
These people hail from lands far and near.

The Road is closed.
I have forgotten the direction.
Detour signs constantly leading me astray.
New houses, no Home while I roam.
Truth dances up ahead, heat waves on tarmac.

Dharma the empty word.
Discipline long absent these days.
Does the cry of havoc damn?
Dogs already loose, gnawing my fretful mind.
Dawn never ready to illuminate the dark confusion.

Forced march, tuneless, footsore.
The Muse is on holiday.
She’s left me no forwarding address.
Hollow sounds and empty words have no weight.
Trading inspiration for wine to make fire in my belly.

Shit flows from my lips, unceasing.
Self indulgence follows, self importance ’round circles.
I’m sick of myself.
Weak, faulted to the core.

Munich 2012

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