|picture source: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/501799583459035487/|
Sunday afternoon’s razor blades are still lying on the table
when Monday morning sharpens its edge
on the rays of sleeplessness piercing its mark,
twisting a thousand images into a barreling truck,
running without brakes on a highway without incline.
Chaos streams through the streets of my mind,
loose strings hanging everywhere, which will rise and which will fall.
No. My death will not be slow,
not one of a million unnoticeable moments slipping by.
No, I will run wild with the stallions unfamiliar to capture,
I will burn until every thought has been fulfilled,
and I will fill your world with my breath, with my touch.
I hope it rains on the day you scatter my ashes.