I close my eyes to listen to my roots, the roof over my head an illusion that did not hold up, I would take somebody else’s voice to fill the guest card and then lay down, exhausted, in my dark stories.
somebody else’s voice
Archives de catégorie : prosepoem
from time to time*
we would speak between the lines, little words from time to time, and sounds that would mark our steps, then our ears full of silence and coming down the hill, we would remember the good old days.
*first published in June 2020, edited in June 2021
How many bags ?*
How many bags will I need for three days, two weeks, a month? How many bags? One for three days, three for two weeks, five for a month? or only one for the rest of my life (and what would I put in it)?
*first posted in May 2020
maybe another time
maybe another time
I will tell you
what blurred my eyes
but did not tell you
what made my story cracked
gave me that austere walk
that made my eyes hurt
and broke my voice
maybe another time the earth was dry
The earth was dry, but looking at the horizon I could see the curves of the earth, its desire to give to those who knew how to wait, how to find and take.
I’ve just realised that bodies fit together like mountains (and then we think we have created everything !).