Locking doors open skin wounds of silence
Burnt fields accosted into nights verloren
We shall dance a tango beside the moonslit bay
Where greenish waters never reached puberty

A sledgehammer in hand
I chase a fly

Weeping drunk
Night is not day
Dirt is not ash
Feelings are passing seconds
Minutes or hours
Sold in bouquets like plastic flowers
On infomercials

Wrapping hands
Or tattooed numbers
Feel the mass grave
Touch it
Jump in it
Now bring me a shovel