The big hero of your pocket sized heart
is scratching on its red moon walls
collecting arrows and the sharpest dart.
He lies entangled in the termites of veins
that eat away freedom
and build new chains.
Sleep deprived by the sound of the clock
he fails to escape in time
so he waits and drinks on your wine,
restless to board the ship at the sand laden dock
he stays awake,
bangs on the door without a lock.
He keeps at it for a thousand years
relentless, he starts again from the start
like the crazy eyed soldier without any fears.
In between the war he sits up to breathe
wide awake in his recurring lucid dream,
blankets the room around him and curls up his feet,
he chooses defeat in a heartbeat.


2 thoughts on “ho:me

  1. Pingback: ho:me | ar[t]runk

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