I’m talking blood on the concrete.
I’m talking chill to the bones.
I’m talking fear on the basement.
I’m talking murder but at once,
I’m talking sweets on the meadows,
I’m talking warmth in the gut,
I’m talking faith on the attic,
I’m talking love that we got.
I have a dead man in my closet.
I have a butcher in my brains.
But the rhythm of my heart is drumming heavy.
And the will to live floats airy my veins.
© Sybille Lengauer