You stand on the position of a statuary.
No value of art, for you were to function as a tool,
the meaning of your existence.
How long would you hang until,...
until you would have to fail me
so that I could leave me dearest memories sealed, sealed forever.
I didn't want to break you, with my own tips,
I just wanted to offer a hand, with utmost sincerity,
until I heard sounds of cracks,
which became mentally audible that I couldn't sleep at night,
to have them nights filled with nightmares,...
and when the first beam of Mr. Sun peeks,
it was actually perceived as a saviour.
Just hang on, please,
were your existence marked
just to remind me all of what happened?
to provide me visuals, jump cuts, reversed Déjà vu's?
Hang on, thy cracked hinge.
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