cold
pressing in from outside
taunts me relentlessly
biting with satisfaction
penetrates
all the extra skins I got
I put around me
keep up for everything to meet
except for you
the one solely touching
my real skin
signs of spring
purposeful down the steps
deep breaths for the tight chest
nightfall takes its time
flying creatures greet
plants reach out for life
signs of spring
Wusch, begraben
Sehnsucht zu gehen
Wärme zwischen den Wänden
zu Hause sein
was ist hier
wo ist es sonst
Zukunft als Streckbank
Kälte als Decke
einsam.
—-
an oppression
with hands tied and face down
just visible
as shadows under my eyes
nightly visits
silent chaos
hands clenched
wings restricted
behind inner walls.
it’s good that a face
is not like glass
that cracks and marks and holes
become memories
stored, saved, forgotten and buried
it’s bad that a face
is not like glass
broken it would serve as a warning
showing that some things
will remain
it’s good that life
is not like a poem
always more complex
more bitter, more happy
darker and brighter
with all the shades of grey.
history shall remain in the past
and a cut on a cracked face of glass
is unfortunate but no huge deal
realize there’s cracks
and then go on
because the sun is up today.
