Without past, without intervention,
it is spectating.
Memories are few,
present is new,
none can see, and none can hear,
the role of a spectator.
To see yet not do,
to hear yet not say,
spectator are lonely beings.

The wine I am tasting has just been tasted,
The perfume I am smelling has just been smelled,
The song I am hearing has just been heard,
The girl I am seeing has just been seen,
The skin I am touching has just been touched,
The many things I am thinking have just been thought,
These lines I am writing have just been written,
Are we then just living in the immediate past?

If time is relative, can now be extended?
Should we rather think of now as time-limited actions?
I will be drinking this wine until the last drop has sunk
I will be smelling this perfume until my receptors are saturated
I will be hearing this song until the battery lets me down
I will be seeing this girl until she disappears in the wild and out of my mind
I will be touching this skin until I am crippled by cramps
I will be thinking until my brain is starving
I will be writing these lines until an elusive timepoint
If these events take several minutes, several hours, or several days,
Is tomorrow then also now?

Can now be stopped?
Suspended, unanimated, just like a broken clock.
At the speed of light time does cease to exist.
Can I then slow now down when I run a sprint?
Now equals present, just like a gift
While present can lead to taking the final lift.
Can now happen when we are not?
Free of life, lying down, some with the precious key to the holy padlock.
Can now (truly) be synchronized when we live on different time-zones?
Different countries, different continents, different rhythms in similar ringtones.

How long is now?
As long as the finite time
Between the moment we’ve left the past
And the moment before we step into the future.
This sticking junction that can never be past.

Death blindfolds Its weakest target before It strikes efficiently.
When the gaze can be met without knowledge,
Five senses complete are heightened in an explosive state.
Their ears tick and shatter at the sound of their own helplessness,
Tumbling from their newly rented lips.
The taste of blood becomes evident upon their tongue.
Their feelers reach peak for safety,
But can only grasp thin oxygen.
The smell of It’s cologne chokes their lungs before Its grand attack.
It, the Grim Reaper;
The blindfold is removed from the target.
The command is uttered.
Consuming black is introduced as the new light entirely.
Death draws the dying’s ending breath for decorated delight.

At every turn I have looked
listened, felt around for a door
a door here and a door there
one that would open
let in the air
let me aboard
not afraid nor bored
or in doubt
always leaning toward
life, whatever would restore
the child’s enthusiasm
the young man’s excitement for the next adventure.

So many doors:
music, art, trees, flowers,
incense, a lover’s lips,
poetry, stories, a lunar eclipse,
lizards, drums, psalms,
the smell of her hair, the feel of her arms.

Still I search for a door open to the light
to heaven and depth and height.

Senses enchanted
You make dreams reality
Inspiring friction