The last remnants of clinging

The last remnants of clinging,
like mould grown in a house.

I sought for a place where I can die in peace,
where I can fall apart without anyone noticing.

I found that place here in the countryside.

Sitting in front of the fireplace in the evening,
I watch the last compulsive habits burn away.

You can’t watch infinity,
if you’re not empty inside.

Time drips by,
with the sizzling of the fire,
the smoke rises,
and there it is,


About Bhusunda

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