The Ends

At the side of the door a bag. The bag of the poor traveller washed out. I am liying my feet on the wall, naked, naive as hell. This is the end of all ends. In the mirror my reflection is missing. I must have left it on the other side with the war. Of the wall, shelter, I will say nothing. The ends, the restauration of my tired limbs. Used as a whore and clean as a newborn straight out of the Nivea bath, me, I am. The rest of the man, straight and correct at all time rests where souls live, outside, out of the war, sending down new meanings. All clear. In the bottom of the bath, drained of all strength, washed, sparkingly neat, a new man. Aleph. All I have is in the bag. I am there with all I am. This is the end. Make me a new man!