you forget yourself (97)

“interwoven by the tragic spiders of the present”

Ingeborg Bachman





I am not 

who i was

nor who I will be

I am only 

who I am

nothing 

and no one

nothing more 

than anyone





memory lies 

laughing

like autumn leaves 

feed

the ground 

from which spring

emerges 

knowing 

only itself

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