Leseprobe

Part VII - The Field

Work, long sweltering summer, do your part
in melting down, drop for drop, this

Malaise! Unbending drought, sought after
only be the foolish men who do not

Understand that we need rain for this world
to be mended. Upended your dreams

Before they could take root, blackout in the
city, so let them loot" Give or take, a few

Years of the in-between don't mean the next
step won't happen, don't mean the break

Will be clean. Stay, if just for a while, I need
to remember your smile! Freckles as a thing

Of beauty but also damaged skin. Sinking
my teeth into a freshly plucked apricot, delicious

Sin. Juiced, squashed, mixed into a sticky,
dripping bater. Alas, not for the better.

Assault and Battery wherever you look, often
with a blue shirted crook. Baked into an

Apple pie, pious lie upon disingenuous reply.
Leaves turning red just for a while before

Wilting, Turning Brown. Air so crisp, water
so clear, steam visible and eliciting an audible

Cheer. It's the juxtaposition of cold and heat
that makes us laugh as well as weep. Closing

Eyes just for a second to enjoy the smells of
cinnamon and rotting apples, pumpkins like

Orange punctuation to a season that seems
like a light sentence given the events of

Summer. Unshackled despite punishing
winds, coarse hands that had to dig their way

Through. Muddied waters, blood-filled quar-
ters, sleeping on stained linen and somehow

Still winning, each day bringing us nearer to
that shard of a dream, fragmented colours

Bundled together in an overwhelmingly
vivid beam. Burning into frosty earth the jagged

Shape of whatever hope remains. On these
wide plains it's not the shame that stays, it's

Not the hardship that lingers in the air, it's a
resounding nevertheless that inspires to

Dare. Am Rande zwar die Wollust auch, but
higher motives prevail. Even as preacher

Upon preacher seems to fail, all's not to no
avail. Cherubs guarding the lofty throne for

Those that know the pricking of a thousand
thorns. Or, hopefully: the ever-striving but

Forlorn. Clouds are shape-shifting in irreverent
speeds, for we do not deserve to be reborn.