I`m in a metal arrow puncturing the sleeping dark. In the distance, the lights of our foster city begin to spring anxiously to life and it all looks like a giant regaining conscience after a heart attack.
I slither endlessly on streets paved with rain, my poison tongues, temporary silenced and numbed from exhaustion. There`s not much use for talking these days. In this limbo, my inner landscapes still seem to echo with voices from past lives.
In the cold light of morning, before I put this weary body to rest or gently turn it on auto-pilot, all I have left are the fictions that I wear between my bones and clothes. This fabric of dreams unmet and violent expectations. And I sleep like that, in these worn little armours that shrink from year to year, until...until one morning, I`ll realize with a sigh, that they have cut all ways for blood and everything else, to reach my heart.
But beneath this endless field of raindrops, calm and collected, I still remember summer. And against my will the memory nurtures hope within me, that this little armours will one day rust and fall apart.
No comments:
Post a Comment