A flower pot should always be on the table in our house.
A candle stick vibrating in a corner of a neat, wide sitting room.
I am aware that I am not special.
No one is special when you walk around your local cemetery.
Maybe the moments that you create which echo through time and space,
repeat themselves and can be seen once in a while
throughout the winter mist early in the evening.
Yes, no one is special.
There are no gods, just earth.
Salt and soil. Rocks and water.
We get bored.
Personally, I get bored with all the small talks.
I become quiet and confused.
I need a depth to dive in,
swim with the mermaids in your belly,
find a shipwreck tangled in your umbilical cord,
touch the black water lillies at the bottom.
My curtains are usually closed.
Purple and thick, velvet materials wrapped around my being
like my mother's womb.
Life regularly evens out the moments at the end,
therefore feel free to throw a stone.
If you only stay quiet, no one will ever know.
No comments:
Post a Comment