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gothic poetry

ich bot sie aller Abschied
seien Sie, Leben geduldig, wenn Liebe am Gatter ist
wölbte die Flut
meine Mutter unterrichtete mich daß jede Nacht
unter dem Helm des Warriors
die Qual des Habens zu vieler Energie
sind Sie lebendig?
weich als das Bett in der Masse
während ich das Hören stand, diskret dumb
alle werfen die Jahre nieder
innerhalb dieses niedrigen Grabs liegt ein conqueror
zu, was eine Frau sie geliebt vergleicht

 



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