Art

we dare tempt nature
into unnatural forms
and then call it art

Process

this disjointed mind
finding broken metaphors
in torn up poems

Darkness

I see not the sun
even in the brightest noon
darkness harvests light

Teardrops

inside each teardrop
existed a universe
which died in the rain

Drum

a drum in my head
the beat of which has no form
its patterns unkempt

Consume

set my blood afire
make steel of this ready flesh
and consume it whole

The Throstle

this wing-ed blacksmith
forging songs of summer’s new
with fire in his blood

Dusk

dusk ebbs to and fro
patterns in shafts of sunset
let the shadows breathe

Rothörnchen

first fire of morning
and flames ignite the treetops
red squirrels blazing

Sands

I pray to the sand
which runs through my fingertips
that it shifts slowly