Sad or sadistic?

Dead bodies fell from the sky like sweet rain would into the salty sea and the African orange peeks from behind the blues. It takes brave men to sacrifice themselves in unnecessary wars and it takes brave artists to admit that sometimes inspiration comes from the worst murders like this mass suicide.

A man in the horizon is crying, he has hair of waves and his lazy eye is the sun. Women in black and men in white went marching in lines through the thick water towards the sun to melt, to blend and to be.

If I can only stop to admire how beautiful this breathtaking horror looks but time does not exist anymore and that’s a shame. My sins are here for everyone to see as a carpet of red roses, and they scream as I walk on them and their blood flows underneath my feet to wash away, to wash off and to wash down.

The blind ones were lost between the giant swords, black feathers folded their eyes for us to know them and they danced on the sounds of the piano that played on our nerves, the generous man gave away his eye to the blind for them to feel fear again.

The Fire forced her presence and Arabian horses were born out from that fire to fly and take the children far away to their awaiting destinies beyond this pathetic life to start a new beginning with new ways to die for them to look forward to.

Great voices of echoes were spreading rumours about the naked sorrow in the grand theatre of life. Mirrors were surrounding us … Our stained truth was surrounding us. We only wore masks that were glued to our faces and they were torn off along with our faces but it was not an act at all.

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I was … I am

In that cold white room I thought … “I remember this place.” Is it sad or funny that I look up to my younger self? In that time I feared none but one and now I am afraid of the endless possibilities. I lived in the house of fear where I got bruised and where I couldn’t feel safe or belong yet I stood tall. I lived with illness and I was the cure who worried about death.

I tried to run away from my own life but I’m still here trying to keep up. The younger me is much braver than I. If only she were here to guide me through. Five cups, who are nine years old today, are my only childhood friends who are left. I look at them as I grow bitter and think … Where have you gone? I’m lost without you.

Mysterious man

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“Am I next?” I thought as I walked by a cemetry in Turkey. They were people like me, I am no god. Will I die? That is out of question. What about my pitiful misdeeds … will I carry their heavy weight on my chest? Will they fit in my grave? In the darkness lays green. Who is that man standing before me? Why do I feel pulled and submissive?

Fear of death is suddenly clear and planted. Stranger, Are you reading my thoughts?! Stop shuffling them on your poker table. I am only grey fading to white. As the healing illness runs through my veins I can hear his only loud thought – “You are next.”