Untitled 31
The graveyard is pregnant. With each expiration,
emotions are buried before taking root in darkness.
They are coaxed from their hibernation before fruiting.
It is always Spring there, with the tallest evergreens'
tips reaching into a never-ending sky before disappearing,
and each bed in constant blossom,
the brightest colours bursting into an unflinching, raw eye-
colours unseen before in nature.
It is the warmest place, I know:
the only place where you can find hopes, dreams
and wishes in abundance. You can arrive there with nothing
but feast there forever. It breeds company,
attracting the rarest specimens of birds from far-off lands
whose mysterious songs breed with declarations of love
and ring on and on, almost deafening to a naked ear-
almost deafening.
But you won't find me there.
I long for the frost, the pale lullabies of winter.
There's peace in poverty, peace in the place
that time abandoned. Nail the coffin shut; I've have enough.
I want to live in a barren land where wishes, dreams
and hopes are absent. Where finished bodies are shriveled
and purged of emotions. I'll sleep best
where love has been said and laid to rest.
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