A prose poem by Wagner Hertzog
Constant guests for the valuable greed of the worst sickness humankind has ever seen. But I still think the worst sickness is the deadly pestilence of an involuntary consciousness. This is the end of a time that has never seen the opulence of a great impenetrable light.
After all, this infatuated syndrome of aggressive behavior was never intended to exist, though I could be exceedingly relentless, fustigated by days of overwhelming sadness. Relentless I will be. Ready to die by an increasingly desolate starvation for life.
Sometimes I really feel the immaculate overwhelming sadness that I seek; all
that I have left is an exhaustion that keeps the sky under my head unannounced and cold. No energy and an infinite tiredness contemplate the starlight skies with an infamous prosperity that never ends. No energy will ever be allowed to compromise the principles of my salutary comfort.
One day darkness will come to close the night. The night barely overcomes
What exists inside the realms of this life. What conclusion could I possibly get, except that I'll never really be the light that hides inside of me?
These times overcomes a falling truth that renounces a sorrow desperate to portray the pain in human eyes. As the night overcomes the sorrow, a true night will always portray the darkness of my old days. The night will always be inextricably attached to my old days, destined to abandon my fallen undisputed disposition behind me for good.
All these noises bring back the anger of ancient agonies. All these old days are perpetually trapped in frustrations that will never be as old as the universe upon which I am inserted. The fact that I want to explain that night and day is dying, and a mordacious sickness seems to prevail over a malicious overthrow.
Nights falling off the sky, what will become of this feeling no longer trapped inside a dream? I came directly to the point of never denying any existence:
I’m positively sure that God knows it all.
Youth and wisdom never walks together. The lucid streams of time bring back a horizon that no longer seeks friends. They are not related, though everybody's amendments do not dare to judge the principles of a time lost in a fearful judgment of increasingly monotonous delusions.
For once and for all, I dare to challenge unclear thoughts.
The sky is clear, a system defied by a nefarious institution for which I have never expressed any confidence before. But I don’t reclaim the uncertainty of an imminent closure, for once and for all.
Planets are everywhere, inside your thoughts, my life, my firm exposure of principles, my desire to reclaim freedom. Inside infinite dreams, inside stories of fundamental mental decay, the declaration of fools persist, nowhere to be seen, nowhere to be found. And all I have to say is that dark days are infrequent, always ahead of me, true to their mortal legacy, they stay.
On these days of major alignment, it seems very difficult to stay happy for a great deal of circumstances. Slavery, intermittent cycles of benevolence, insistent noises of shadows, a vast amount of spurious indolence always relevant when I'm tired of everything.
They made loud noises behind the windows of my backyard grievances. They made loud noises behind the voices of my soul.
Even after several years, even after all these years, everything behind my voluntary sadness precedes the dark days of my monotonous anger.
These days feels quite the same. Even after these days of unexpected weaknesses the indisposition gets higher and higher; in the empty vicinities of a life where all days are over, finished by a malevolent precarious and imponderable constituency where all evil is punishable by men with a children-like spirit.
When will come to me the end of this morbid life? An unparalleled sickness gets louder than a vicious melancholy. All this loud noises, what they really mean? The slow victory upon which my ambivalence strikes your modest behavior will never feel the omnipotence of my lucid heart.
This hazardous existence makes me awkwardly insane. Nobody can strike my alternative options, as to why I don’t particularly enjoy the meticulously bestial arrangements of life inside the end of my dream.
The pain in life will always serve as a prelude to chaos? Life is a killing category of endless cruelty. Who would not comprehend something so atrociously tragic? A painful abyss of never-ending disasters is a timeless breath that perhaps will be over in a distant future.
This life of slavery will take everybody down.
The sky will never be large enough to subsidize or to contain all my venomous fears. The night sky will be filled with deep grief and unhappiness, the assimilation of an unexpected mental misery taking us down.
The sickness overwhelmed by the bright stars highlights clearly the interference of its own light. And what becomes of this feeling? Life can be so cruel, but that’s just the way things naturally flow. A life impersonated by despair came to know agony. And as far as I know, this majestic element became an acquaintance of me.
Life became a really long darkness. Life is falling and I am falling. It can be quite hard for me to process this everlasting pain, this everlasting agony that undergoes through the vastness of my heart. Will a new world ever be possible in the everlasting conjuncture of my heart?