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religious poem

ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
fällt hier kein Licht
Sturm
in die Dunkelheit und Frieden meinem abschließenden Betts
die Schwärzung stiehlt die Formen aller Königinnen
in der LageSEIN, jede Seite jeder Frage zu sehen
meine sorge, wenn sie hier mit mir ist
weich weinend
Moonlight tief und zart
so verloren
machen Sie sich nicht Sorgen, daß er rüber sein
sie sprengte fierce Wein

 



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