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birthday poetry

mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
ein dünner grauer Schatten auf dem Rand des Gedankens
hohe Wände und sehr groß
Moonlight tief und zart
letzter Mitternacht
was es die gesagten Maschinen war
wie ich innen roofed liege, innen aussortiert
ich fülle diese Schale
könnten wir aber zu wissen
entlang einem River-side
Sie sind schön und verblassen
seien Sie nicht mit mir verärgert
seien Sie nicht falsch

 



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