everything is fine

there is a fisherman
holding flowers over there
by the landscape painting
he’s promising the
lie that you want to believe
he’ll tell you everything
that you want to hear
convince yourself that the
parallel universe is existing only
the one where nothing hurts
the grass couldn’t be greener
the sky couldn’t be bluer

vivid dream activity

not even death has to be a disaster
death can just be an illusory smell
that stays in the nostrils weeks after
something traumatic happens to your body
an unexplainable wrench
no one will understand when
you ask ‘do you smell that decay’
but then you remember a time that
where you had your face pressed
up to death
non happenings stick
quarantine has dismantled time
the space between life and death
has now become the
infinite version of it still
we all feel it
we’ve all been bashed inside