Or...

Do not dare
to descend nor highlight.

It's the mother of my nightmares, the Mourn.
But it just doesn't seem right,
it's worse than the spikes
we so advisedly could decide to throw ourselves at.

Only yesterday,
in that rainy daylight
where I was letting myself unprotected,
I said 'no -

- nothing 's a good buy.
But the oracles never saw it brighter or worse
than it always really was.'

Do not force it.
Like the waterdrops
racing down my forehead,
blistering through my eyes -
they'll just fall,
one by one.

'Thou shall wait for the end.'

Lies.
There is no end,
as there was never a beginning for this world.

[so I 'm thinking of that girl in Beirut
who's writing love songs,
while the thunder strikes
next to her window,
on the city, on the street, on the mass,
on her dear brother.
She's not afraid of anything -
not any more.]