History

Life has no meaning

Just a flow of actions

We dream of meaning

But there are no, memory

And the distortion of memory

Is all there is left

End Of The World

When reaching the empty house

At sunset, hiding from the wind

This is where the memory

Of the dead are stored

Names written or engraved

In shells from the nearby

Ocean, people come here to die

It looks like a good place to

End your days in the lilac light

In a foreign country

Memories From A Broken Life

Watching the coffee drinkers

In a the chic café

The noise of people

Talking with muted

Voices

Quiet violence rushing

Into my ears

Hurting them

Memories of the terror

From earlier years awakens

Memories of torture day by day

Writing in subtle language

That do not heal the broken

Mind and heart

Conman

Winter mornings

Are dark matters

We suffer, we the Slow moving creatures

Of this Earth

I’m just an ordinary conman

Doing my deeds

And sometimes getting paid for them

When we are gone we are forgotten

we the insects of mankind

That you need but always denies

The Prize You Pay In the End of

What prize is it worth paying

For learning about life?

Long time ago

I went to the war

Wanting to save the world

And the world came to me

And said

I don’t want to save you

I do not care if you live or die

You are not my problem said the world

And into the war I went

With people dying all the time

I were in the middle between

Life and death

But none of them had any time

So scared and tired

I went to my calm home

A place where nobody cared

And told them there are horrible

Things going on both here and there

They did not care

We have to put food on the table

And after all its their own fault

Let them die,

After all these years I still remember

And I am still scared

So maybe it was a to high price to pay

To change the world

Let it be

Let it fall

There are so many other fruits

Of knowledge in the tree

Frozen Land

The sun has returned

To the north

Shining a cold

White light upon us

Ignorant and indifferent

Without within

Some days nothing

Today is Sunday

A hopeless Sunday

With a little light

And a long earned

Spring to long for