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Life is too short for boring stories

Pack the suitcase
smooths the ceilings,
dust the chest of drawers,
cut the last ribbon,
puts his hat on his head,
holds the suitcase on the right,
left the doorknob,
force to look to close,
one more look
standing in the open door,
Light floods the room,
Silence in the rough version,
unplugged, uncensored,
ready to go,
Dust swirls
in the last ray
of the sinking,
the curtain pushed aside,
let it stay
Walls swallow the echo
the last chance anyway
undeniably denying
the commemoration
and the hearing
and experience
and even to the divine
ready to close.

Astride it is said
astride the grave,
the familiar words blow to me
long forgotten
Born astride the grave,
and
I don’t see myself in it
I am the woman giving birth
and the grave
and even the pliers
and it does something to me
what has been read,
the stories,
carried by sounds and melodies,
cracks the walls
of space and time,
far more than imagination,
not even magic
is like the calm in the middle of the hurricane,
like a dance on a tightrope
am the cold November rain,
and the bed of roses
am the coke in your syringe
and the plane in your stomach
am your parched tongue
and the unmoved flowing river
am the tear of the softly crying child
and the star in the dark night
and it does something to me
the words,
that I read
packs the suitcase,
shattering walls
it does something to me
the music,
that I hear
smooths the ceilings,
Stories,
sung and told,
Understood,
not just in the head,
but with myself
Be understanding
Saddle Pegasus
to be carried away by him
and slide down again
with the wings of Icarus,
not too close to the sun
and if I
I rise again
like phoenix from the ashes,
limitless,
holds the suitcase on the right,
left the doorknob,
to close, complete,
the room with the curtains
and the smoothed ceilings
and the dust-free dresser
and the cut ribbon,
unchanged, apathetic,
because the music and the words
they do something to me.

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