(photo by author)

and who am i now

in this broken form?

what is this forgotten sin

i hold in my hands?

who has taken this body?

stolen my breath?

have i murdered

a child?

defiled some innocence?

to whom belongs this madness?

it is not mine.

i am no madman.

perhaps some genocide

has rippled through time

or distancespace

to enter into this form

a dead old man

collapsed into

a helpless child

must truth be so hard to find?

all this

it is not about you

but that which you stir

that which is hidden

in the subfloor

covered with dusty rugs

tables and steins

and now

the gestapo march

with their controlled gentleness

leading down a twistedroad

into a place of nature

we no longer need go

a failsafe survival

a place where muffled



with screams of those between

our bloodlust ripping teeth

one we accept



so vehemently

it is destined to haunt us

it cackles below our feet

and warms as we shudder

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.