Mais c’est la machine en elle qui rêvait de caresses… -Sartre
Wrong words sometimes misheard
as the correct ones,
there are no correct words,
only those more or less sufficient.)
dream disguised as prophecies while
all prophets are despised
& each day either a sombre parade
gliding quietly by,
or screaming as it runs into the night.
Were these fiercely defended fantasies
created only to be destroyed?
Is that why
we still desire them?
How strange it is that the urge to leap when crossing
a bridge so rarely corresponds
to the balance
solidarity & isolation;
it seems in hindsight
that colour depends upon more than light:
if we close or open our eyes;
the strength of our sight; what
we choose to see,
we look away.