Wondering the meaning of the maze
I willingly think myself into it, enter
To get lost, pound away, disintegrate
As dying slowly is deliciously aware .
Even the smell is , the eyes turn red
Welling with waves of cold lubricating
A subject turns object, verb doing lost
Somewhere of thinking in its recesses.

For a change let us not ask  purpose
Getting lost is process of granulating
A subject aware of turning to object
Something fiddled around with neatly.
We are but words, in a maze of words
Bodies are no longer subject-things.
Once we enter we granulate to a sky.
We are left to thought , poems in white
Helvetica on  top, to a beauty of maze.

The maze is beautiful like  infinite sky
The stars are the granules we turn into
In strange milky ways of star granules
At  midnight, just above our sleeping.
Our breath is dust,our poems embryos
Lost before sleeping, into the infinity
Of a sleep of never waking, a never sky.


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