I check every now
and then
if there are any remains
hanging
on my thorns

just
to prepare

I believe I fly
while I feel
hanging in the middle
of going up
and down

I follow you
and I know
to nowhere

Is this the last drop
of what is left over
or the first drop
of what is coming

only history will tell

I know you will open up
but it is easy to give up on you
looking so cold and closed

and majestic 

We love to make a show
of that tiny kernel of truth
in our own universe

My thoughts feel 
like they flow like a river
a constant stream
towards a point

but I suspect
that the shape
of what seems to be a river
is formed by the decay 
of its surroundings 

The sun shines
and I wonder who decides
to put the shades down 

at least I wonder about something