After losing his Messiah complex
the artist no longer knows
what he expects
and time rolls on relentlessly
and that’s all it does
he says to me
It carries nothing that’s all on us
it’s not a river or an
existential bus
it’s not a page that you can write on
it’s just a tide no one
can fight
and I’m losing predictably
the artist, no longer young
said to me
but I keep my spirits up with one thing
we all go to the next stop
carrying nothing
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