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prose poetry

der Blitz blitzte und hob an
aus dem funkelnden Meer heraus
letzter Mitternacht
ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
Standplatz hier durch meine Seite
als weiße Kerze
Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes
obwohl ich wenig als alle kleinen Sachen bin
vor er war viele und viel einem Jahr
in den mournful Zahlen
schreckliche Wahrheiten diese sind
die Sonne ist oben
hören Sie den Regen?

 



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