"по стене ползет кирпич. а за ним ползет другой. ну и пусть себе ползут. нам не нужен пенопласт!" (с?)
Soldier of Fortune

(to my brother, RIP)

Stranger, what is the name I'd call you
by in a dream of a foreign world?
you might be just one of the passing soldiers
warming your hands from a hungry cold
one of the mercenaries free for hire
though at what price is not mine to tell
your eyes are wide, and what they see is fire
to ever quench it there is no well.

What is your essence, a name to master
the whirl of splinters and shattered rock?
you step on bodies, yet your sword is rusty
your unlived lives are all there to mock
you march through canvases thinly woven
no portrait smudged is to be your guide
no need for names, what you'd use is stolen
a true one's precious on the dreamy side.

Head on to stars, blessed by Mother-Fortune
No wonder yours is a restless fate
So much to taste before a name has caught you
Between a closed and an open Gate.

Breathless (current)

I feel like holding my breath
All the time like some precious wealth
Strolling to work at a leasurely pace
Forcing myself not to see your face

Like stepping into a puddled depth
Just to ignore my shoes catching their death
It'll probably feel like winter all too soon
With no other street pal than a stranded moon

Surely not mooning all over spring
Lest it misses another chance to sting
I feel like sinking into a pavement crease
Lest suffocation has mercy enough to cease

Catching for air instead of fishing for straws
I know my case is hopeless, I'd better show
myself right through the thoughtfully open doors
I feel like closing my eyes.
Breathing has surely once felt nice.

My empty lungs seem to miss it as such.
It's likely though not to finally please me much.

@темы: стихи-я