Everything converges in the opposite direction

Life echoes within the migraine

like a tale told

in the dark,

but I realize it's I,

mumbling in my ear

while the alarm of assault deep in the brainstem

teems with unknown dangers

out of the deeply personal sense of alienation

The migraine is a ship in the night

with its cargo askew

The effort of thought is silent voices

in the hold of perception,

lost resting positions in rough seas

The Northbothnian forests stand

in battle-ready Roman formations

Everything converges in the opposite direction

on the elastic drift of the wind

The road lies apathetic

like an early spring adder

The relay of winter months seamlessly runs

into something milder

The sought-after becomes the easily discarded

The day spills its Rorschach formula,

interpreted according to temperament and preference,

in the opposite direction of everything

The night sits heavily

in its leather armchair, staring ahead,

while the constellations gather for a performance

of the playfully light vignettes

in Stockhausen's Tierkreis,

meeting the opposite direction of everything

and all the clear notes that mock and cosmicize

the galactic means of coercion

from here to eternity