again

still just a bundle of sticks

feeding the fungus and becoming compost

or burned in pyres

fueling the hunt for witches

or because it feels good

to strike the match

after one too many bithdays

but no cake

bad jokes and one trick

pink ponies on their carrousels

and everybody hates it

nobody would comeback from

this for that

so anybody is free to

be the first to stay for dinner which

we never get to feast

but maybe this time when

he tells me that he misses me

i will remember

that he will

again

if not for still

i will remember

that silence is not always golden

i will remember

sometimes nothing is so overpowerful

that osmotic vacuum

so i feel at home amongst the maelstrom

always moving

until i became a stranger to

the storm i called him

where nothing stood my wishful thinking granted

to be struck by lightning

only once

when he, out the open door, left

i saw the fuse

burning down to the explosion

a controlled climax

withholding