Lava of rustling leaves wakes the street with each whirl grasping
at plastic bags,
throwing old leaflets
at windows. I stir,
I push my body against futon, my skin against its naked skin,
rubbing off remaining fabric of dream as light
as footsteps crossing Earth’s first artificial wound.
I’m still here greedily clinging to air,
recycled flesh, tubes and throbbing pulp
interbred with water and dirt.
I move like atavistic sun,
like vampire avoiding mirrors as not to see the face
that once belonged to my father.
I digest time warped around punched walls,
doors kicked in,
bones cracked in anticipation of fulfilled urge,
Once, it was all ashes, yet charcoal doesn’t burn
neither swallowed nor walked on and pain
as maze of undone possibilities.
I proudly wear inherited hatred,
worn out but not outgrown,
swelled up like Ouroboros growing
with sweet darkness turned into sweet darkness in the rhythm
of awaking nocturnal animals.