anemic

there is no escape from the desolate circle, we all know
and might as well laugh at our silly hands.
the world which opens for us is but a hungry vagrant:
this morning, more than ever,
I felt its smell of flesh, its wrinkled skin,
its endless arms like sullen tentacles
pressed upon our bodies.

lately wherever I go I know death is present:
in the skyscraping buildings with empty contours,
in the paper-like silhouettes caught in inane routine
and all their stupid distractions, death inhales everything.

sometimes, walking alone, I see the picture unfolding:
the horizon, clear and helpless, still renders space
for a short dream of alienation,
under the tired breath of the city
that will go on tomorrow and the day after.
and us, we're caught between the draining machines,
and burn like candles, nameless, joyless, with no direction.