The truth lies,
I suppose, in what there can be seen.
I know the world, as shown on my TV,
truth, in between the frame rate intervals,
finds ways into my cervix, where it stays.
A tortured Syrian child, the name Omar,
whose nails were torn out, lingers on my mind
then falls apart when a commercial starts.
Not waiting for the rest, I zap away.
From forecast on to football
to pruning of a rose, a cooking contest show.
A Ronny always makes me laugh.
By every second twenty-five
new images invade me more.
But when I go to bed,
accompanied by thoughts of life,
I close my eyes to find some peace
in dreams and fantasy.
The sleep won’t come.
How can I sleep,
as in a corner of my room
Omar is watching me
with frame rate twenty-five.