The one who hangs on the strings of the moss.
So why are you still hanging in the strings of moss?
Another day collides,
another woman confesses and signal's to cross.
Straight from the abyss a briefcase arises,
no sound included.
Straight from the matching shoelaces
in stranger shoes,
the bruise pain disappears.
A boiling stew, under the rain,
a rare egg hatches.
Straight under the surface the penguin's march
flows with dissonance.
It is invertebrate and pure.
It is signed within its innocence.
It is the verb in form
and formed verses.
It is in its appearance similar to a spider web.
It is a coil and its recoil.
It is in its finest greeting form.
It's like a hug but it can't fulfill.
It is like sorcery but all mages stand still.
Straight out of violence in its momentary lapses,
a heartbeat singing and the rhymes are twinning.
Straight out of silence and its voice reconsiders,
a handmade letter, with no words, just signature.
And the cold stands still.
Another night of waving lights,
but we aren't on a boat anymore.
Another casket feeds on moonlight flowers,
and you're still hanging in the strings of the moss.