To: Mum

There is always sense in madness.
How the leaves flow, blow and explode,
and how they intertwine with the wind -
if this thing can be called wind.
Everything looks as quiet as death,
and life beneath is breathless,
cause it is at last, always, always
Objectified.
I can see hands having spasms.
Disappointment is the occupant feeling.
He just lost the train to work.