(poetry by Matteo F. Ponti)
Bees follow sounds I can’t hear
among sounds I hate
side to winds whispering in my ears
I can’t see a purpose
Can’t stop believing
I am the radiant son of a mighty God, therefore
all things must have a purpose
which infact is not.
Purpose is being,
Noise is a move.
The white sound of stars, waves and blood.