30

notes get old
my wits do not get any bolder
I must hoist my pen
and catapult these thoughts

30, from here on I start to die
my sadness beckons into the material
and expressions stagnate into wrinkles
trickling bits of memory
the steep curve evidently flattens

30, from here on I start to lie
unlike before just in word
now in both worlds
when time denies the lux of reality
and delights become formality

30, from here on I start to write
closer to the paper
entrusted to the strokes
I nurture on the past
and it pulses back

the dreamer dies, the poet is born