Scientific statistics have so far proved that out of all professions, writers are the most likely to develop mental unstabilities.
You never forgot how to write, did you?
When nights are cold enough to make the
blackness shake in its shell,
nights where you can taste
your oxblood lips, speaking
spells and slinking truth in the
penned words – on these nights
you coax the dawn from darkness.
A sweet sultry sexuality.
No, you always recalled how the scratch of granite
made your heart race, how your hips danced
out every grinding desire blooming in you.
The desperation is finite, and it’s sick, dear Désirée
how the ice chinks are still in your veins
unmelted and bullet-sharp on capillary walls.
Absolute zero looms closer and closer, but your
caught on the second hand of the clockwork:
You’ve always hungered for the feeling
of not being able to sink any lower.
Pen scrapes the bottom –
(demons on the window lattice)
you’re already there.
