Yes, they are calm.
Cool, like stars at the bottom of a bottle.
Graceful,
brutal,
nurturing, like mothers,
but with paint on their lips.
They hold meaning —
like the fear of life,
like the fear of death,
and many die in between.
They fear nothing.
They aren’t afraid to shoot up,
they aren’t afraid to pluck the forbidden fruit,
they aren’t afraid of snakes.
They move easily, breaking through walls,
not looking back,
knowing how to live.
They brought us into this world,
while we stand between two walls with a guard.
Only the bravest break through,
like cowboys tipping their hats in the saloon.
While the wall smolders,
the one behind presses in,
trembling with cowardice, eager to crawl over us.
Muscular, wild,
*******.
We are stuck,
because we are afraid,
because life is terrifying,
because the fear of death —
is the only certainty,
and it’s not scary.
All that’s left is to push it
and go after them,
but it’s already too late.
The wall behind closes you underground,
like a quiet nightmare of Kafka,
where you are alone in this madness,
and the world tightens its grip.
Nothing