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Literature Text
It clings to my hands
like glue to a stick.
It trembles on my lips
like blood on a blade.
It covers my soul like a shadow that raises over a landscape
transforming every green into grey and pale.
My thoughts mutate into flashes of light, beams and rays.
They seem to be streaks of rain.
Every end has a beginning, though this one's false.
I can't swallow it whole.
I can't spit it out.
And me
standing there amidst the ruins
while my inner world won't stop spinning
while reflecting
as Inanimate Existence.
like glue to a stick.
It trembles on my lips
like blood on a blade.
It covers my soul like a shadow that raises over a landscape
transforming every green into grey and pale.
My thoughts mutate into flashes of light, beams and rays.
They seem to be streaks of rain.
Every end has a beginning, though this one's false.
I can't swallow it whole.
I can't spit it out.
And me
standing there amidst the ruins
while my inner world won't stop spinning
while reflecting
as Inanimate Existence.
Again one pulled out of the old dusty books that color my shelves. I think I was 18 at the time.
Originally written in dutch. To be found in my gallery, folder Dutch/Nederlandstalig, of course!
Originally written in dutch. To be found in my gallery, folder Dutch/Nederlandstalig, of course!
© 2012 - 2024 LikeDustIllRise
Comments13
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Well you did very well if you did that at 18! I like the concepts you used and how you kept the reader wanting to read to find the answer. Nicely done