On Her Hand It Was Written

Strip yourself naked – it was written on mother’s hand,
To the orchestra playing the waltz of death,
Dance your life away on the porcelain floor,
Let the bloodshed plant itself in your hollow bones
And rise from the fissures a dead child shall
With a redefining posture to the grapefruit moon,
Mirth tied down his spine,
Never again to be discovered, once more.

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How Lonely Sits Berlin

How lonely sits Berlin
A matter of my sin,
Compulsive signs of hope,
Transformed to misery.

How lonely stands the star,
For nothing but poetry,
In love with the Sun itself,
A backlash to it’s memory.

How lonely sits Berlin,
Drags me onto transcendence,
Oh, how I wish I jumped the Berlin Wall,
Oh, how I wish death awaits the absurd of my mind.