Like the evening storm of the north, you are breaking in through the windows, besieging this fortress. With the raiding of forest steppes, with the cruel folly of a man, you appear on the threshold, yelling and tossing, throwing the calm into the air, tearing apart happiness which was woven out of worn rags.
The less there is will to see you, the less there is love for you, the sooner you appear. Like the demon of the Crossroads. You are not welcomed here.
The happiness hides from you in the corners, dying in the pathetic dust; love is pretending to be sleeping for years. You choked her with a firm hand of the guardian; you are looking for her – with the cry of a wounded beast you look through every room, every corner. But we hid her well – together, but silently, and, is if it was always the same, buried her without laurels.
There is no way to hide from you.
Only with the blanket of dreams, with the dead sleep of an animal in front of a predator, I can escape your eyes. I’m listening to your midnight howls since forever, and how is it like? No one will ever know. There is no point in trying to fix a broken one.
You try. But your flowers’ smell is rotten – they are dead. Much like your soul. I don’t touch them for so long; they start to beg to be released, leaving the dead fleur behind. The scent is malign.
I’m washing my hands chaotically; I would rather do it with acid, just give me a chance. I lick my wounds like a wild forest cat, trying to get back something mine, but I can’t find anything what would belong to me.