A Stench of Paradise

Just being here

Trapped on a small island

In the wast emptiness of the mind

Another slow day

In the summer

A day so still that we are

Creating conflicts as a pastime

Running around in our own mind

Tearing down Paradise

Invisible

Traveling along the small trail in

Far north

The road keeps turning

This road

Were once used by the

German Vermacht

Built by the Germans

After they hunted all the

Islanders away

This is not a road but still a road

Overgrown by flowers and nettles

Like history itself more

Fiction than fact

But still underneath

The stones and gravels

Are there as well as some

Barbed wire

New Paths

Changing path is a hard thing

Only done when necessary

Finding a path can be even

Harder when there is no one

There to help you out

Like looking for a place

To rest from the wind

On a barren island

On a way

Endnotes to Life

Life is changing

A continuous process

A struggle against

The forces that wants

You to perish

The people who

Wants to maim you

Eventually

In the end of the day

You end up

Different and

In a completely

Different place

The Island

In the middle of the sea

There is an island

Covered in snow

With small pine trees

Fighting against the wind

And the waves

The ice is gone

No more connection

With the mainland

Global warming

Reaches the north ocean

Above everything a man

Is always an island

Connected or disconnected

By sea and ice

Mind reader

Diving into the mind of my grandfather

Dead since almost ten years

Using the wisdom of Tai Chi and my

Intelligence skills

To become a Turncoat, an amoeba

Floating around In

The mental universe

Of the demented man

Whose God, Newton

Would rule with his rigid laws of traction and

Attraction

Searching his fragmented mind for

The Secrets of the atom and the atom bomb

Or the standing of the planet an evening

In March 1981

At the time when Venus rise 87 Degrees east

I maybe I would find,

surprisingly some hidden knowledge

About a pine tree on a remote island in the sea

Corpus Christi

Does anyone see
me 

Does anyone see
anyone else
Than them self
We are all
island
Every man is an island
He or she lives and
withers, die and
sink to the bottom
of the ocean of 
oblivion 
Everything changes
but we are all going
down sooner or later