And Everything That Should Have Happened
Everything around me is still
and waiting,
has patience,
knows not to reveal itself
except as stillness;
the books on the bookshelves,
the shelves themselves,
and the pictures, paintings, phonograms
in their CD & LP cases,
and drawers that haven’t moved in years,
furniture that has found the perfect refuge
right on the edge of eternity;
matter’s adherence to its visible forms
in the spaces of Euclidean geometry;
the tireless extension
- and I as the observatory of dark energy
and a death squad on its way from too late to too late;
everything that should have been different,
but was lost in vain;
the old time’s lock for what has passed,
which is stuck in the musty room of imperfect tenses;
immutable evidence
of what shouldn’t have happened,
or absolutely should have happened,
in what only the guilty himself can forgive,
which is harder than hard,
for it is easier to crouch in one's autoimmune accusation,
with one's unforgivenesses cast in specially hardened steel,
buried deep in the past
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2024-07-20 at 22:02
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