Mittwoch, 21. November 2012

scribble #13

Come, my little helper
into my dim light,
cavelike resting place,
where the oracles
of the centuries
throw gloomy judging
eyes from their walls,
the space they
took away from me,
the breath they
forced to be
and neverminding
how I sleep
they celebrate their
pointless holidays
down from my wall

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