drought wake

sun glaring down from the weather hill.
eyes on the ground for the breakfast drill.

neck likes to bend, play the gentleman.
play you may, thinks the head, but be gentle then.

don’t pretend like this bend might bear fruit someday.
I can’t see, I can’t breathe, while I’m forced to pray.


revised version – first draft posted on 8th of April | also accessible on Medium

Autopticon

I moved the clock in my living room to another wall.
But my muscle memory hasn’t caught up yet.
So when I wonder if I’m running late, I still turn to where it used to be.

The old spot isn’t empty, though: a mirror’s hanging there now.
And instead of an answer I find the question staring back at me.

High noon. Who’s gonna blink?

Taking on yourself is tricky.
No chance of winning by standing firm.
No use in retreating and going for a lesser foe.
No way of getting through without taking a beat down.


revised version – first draft posted on 31st of March | also accessible on Medium

Home

I come from a land far from here to the east with a most unusual sky.

At night it’s so dark you can barely see any stars and each step makes you stumble and pause. And by day there is lead-coloured blanket of clouds stretching all the way to the horizon.
There must be a gap in these clouds somewhere, though, because the sun always shines. And at times a thunder may pass by in the distance – like a prowling threat, like a guarded promise.

So the people of this land wear straw hats and have tanned skin,
but their pupils are wide and their eyes are perpetually moving.

Sometimes I miss home, when my mind wanders back.
But it is good to have left.

Credo

I wish I was a general with sixty thousand men.
I would fight every tree and bush to find my inner zen.

I wish I was a rhythm stick and friends with rhyme and flow.
We’d roam the land to sketch and pet all things we cannot know.