Short Cut.

An honest man
stuck in a situation for dishonest men.
Holding gold,
being cherished,
momentarily loved and adored,
admired
for something he hasnt done.
Mercy in Hell you ask
and demons laugh at you,
you naive little pig,
getting slaughtered,
eaten,
digested,
and shited.
BLACKNESS.
You are dead
and you soul didnt deserve
ether eternity
or a comeback.

The End Of The March.

Just piles of dead skin now
in a black rain coat,
returning to an empty apartment
with not even pets
not even peace.

Just chocolate on bones
on the skull
in the empty dark sockets,
between the fingers,
not even sweet
anymore.

Just filthy boots,
with filthy socks,
with filthy feet
that never walked in
pretty avenues
or clean streets,
with not even memories,
not even from back home.

Just a fellowship
of a trembling pen,
decorated papers,a
full bottle of orange cloud,
not even writing anymore,
not even reading,
not even drinking.

Just some last sneaky peaks
outside my window,
from my small basement,
looking at walking shoes,
not even judging anymore,
not even carring.

Just a sober last signature
on a piece of paper
and pieces of tires muscles,
theories and soul,
lieing on a brown sofa,
not even comfortable anymore,
not even carring for comfort,
its a sleeping matter.

Just closing the eyes now,
the pause is coming,
closing the ears,
the mouth,
not wanting to see anymore,
not wanting to listen,
not wanting to breath.

Just waiting
stiffly and simply
for the end of the comedy.