Classic Poem

It's no use
even writing on this clean seat.
The sounds of horror waft through the air,
butterflies transported in a tiny room.
It is something you have to hear,
it is something you have to see,
a ceremony.

Today's no different from yesterday—
the person I'm worrying about gets farther by the day—
like a prisoner waiting for death
I have to yawn a fatigued yawn.

Particles flying at the window,
a dictionary filled with lies,
I have no other choice but to look at it.
Beneath the changeless sea and sky
there is no one for me to curse.
I have to circle my own world of dreams
like a seagull migrated from Alaska.

One bottle of whiskey. Ten packs of smokes.
But wait—the consumption of my mind continues. A fortnight
spent on the wide sea is meaningless.
But
my face and fractured body are soaked
in the scent of isolation and complexity.

The sea gets angry and I'm trying to sleep.
I dream of the ego through nature's eons and eons.
It could be
a deep-seated delusion embellishing
a fragment of reminiscence
and a peculiar ambition.

Night passes and the day of affliction arrives.
Drinking coffee becomes my measure.
The sea and sky all around
immersed in immense misery and steel.
That is why I wasn't lonely yesterday.