Dried seeds by Marina Zrnic©

They gave me a golden ring and a bull skull.

The golden ring belonged to my grandmother.

I spoke to my cat about it

when I heard that all the widows refused to get married.

Would you, please, admit that you still love me?

The summer is so sticky and sweet.

All the time I have urge to vomit.

My world is incredibly intolerant, irreversible and deep.

As the time goes by, all the seeds are get dry.

I sleep with a huge piece of salt in my bed.

I lick it during the night,

I rub my face to dry and hide the tears.

I am marvellously incapable of acting, 

utterly bored with the society.

I feel the absolute happiness while drying insects outside, 

on a rope.

Sometimes I feel it

while eating olives,

while being silent.

I have made many sentences which lie locked and wet inside my lungs.

All the dried seeds

lie thrown and spilt all over the wooden floor

as we try to grow just one plant

from its beginning until death.