On the fourth of January
the sky is grey
but it can't be bothered to cry

I trip over your pride
and 
sink into 
the Kingdom of Oblivion 
failing to reach the bottom
and greet my forgotten friends

Poor memory of my impeccable manners
embraces me fondly
so I can swear
not so solemnly
but expressively and sincerely

Three hours later
unbearable lightness of being
stares at me 
insolently
from an empty bookshelf
and
fades away
to die peacefully 
with a bushy spider
in my arms


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