Preparations

I am getting used to passing the time
in the solemn company of my wood beams.
Perhaps weeks, perhaps years
in which I have been witness to the world’s determination to name the unborn,
to possession and
to abandonment,
to preparations coming from planning uncertainty,
and to my own weakness.
I have not become better
although I lit candles and prayed
and I mattered.
I scribbled more question marks on waiting room tables than I gave answers
and
I felt the humility of a man proven wrong when
I hoped I had done enough.
Somehow,  each time I rebelled
I ended up cleaning up the wreckage,
packing, unpacking,
forgiving everything
but not myself.

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Following Black

If with one hand you
made me a king, god,
with the other you
brother have taken everything else
in return.

My wide eyes travel alone
towards colour.
They all stare at my crown.
But words do not weep
and nor do you.

We both have wet muddy hands,
under your skin, new silver,
under mine, a whole new town.

The familiar surrounding of yet
another road to Jerusalem
which I follow
as I follow black.

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The Reality of Lines

I am the best like this
with nothing left
hanging
dried purple tulips
at each door handle.
With no audience
I face the blackness of each line
to learn what remains of reality.
The hope that all could be new
when everything is
already gone.

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@Maria Stadnicka