11 What is left..

Gazeing out the windowsill i feel the heats chill coming. Appearence

is not

what i am seeking for. Weep for all the bravely losses as am counting

counting for the greedy butchers

Winds howling and yearning inside my fallow scope. Awake is it

what you are not. Maddening the powdery slope and waiting for the

Porridge to dry, i sing the puppets lullaby. Ever on the lively beat follows

follows the moles scratching my skin

So i pad the empty rocking chair, find it oddly queer, of you to seal

the effusively ligneous eyes. Marking down in timely manner all the

minutes ahead of me and shine. Shine till graves revive upon mossy patches

Pearls and oats tied over my ankles and wrists. I dance on cracking piles of wood

it is

rain on fiery ashes. Falling. Falling down on bones and domestic remains

Copyright © 2012 by Franziska Dirnberger

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One thought on “11 What is left..

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