y medio mundo
i write, he sleeps, he writes, i sleep - it is fitting that this abyss
has somehow bound us - i use it as strength, as the only logical
place to put my heart - one day when i am old and gray i will type
one last poem and then with one click delete it all and let them
escape - travel as they should, enter into the abyss where i will
find them - in a different form: children all gathered about me
wondering why i chose that genre to let them exist
i will tell them - at least i let you exist
[i]
Notes from
Across the Blue Couch
not everything is the way it is.
