WHISPER OF INFECTED LACKS

 A watchful rot crept in the lap of the streets; the infected darkness reeked from the caves of the pitch-black night. Longing palms stretched out on bars ask for alms-money daily wages in exchange, they are interrogated daily by crouching lacks. Because even in the Soul - sooner or later - a wasteful echo falls back, which we can still call our own. Man - if you are not careful - will permanently diminish in himself. 

The petty great power of wasps is rampant on a spit-to-eat flypaper, while many would expect the fullness of Time with a sneer. Now it seems that everything and everyone demands sunflower heads for themselves; wise eye sockets still shine - but fear - not for long. The civilized way of life now seems to seem more and more obvious; Even from reported loves, the beauty of the Universe blooms less and less. 

Faceless salesmen and customs officers dictate order, the fashion monkeys of the 21st century sneer at each other in neon-lit shop windows with increasingly exhibitionist methods. They snap ever cheaper cockroaches and small-style lice off each other's body pores at will; no one can know who to really believe besides themselves?! 

The life of hiding remains, even in the midst of mole hunts if necessary, as if the closed secrets in the human soul were increasing. As if those who are guilty accomplices were no longer capable of crouching down as question marks.