TAR

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,

anger quenched.

Once, it was all ashes, yet charcoal doesn’t burn

neither swallowed nor walked on and pain

remains

inflicted,

 

self-inflicted

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.