birds.

remember?,
drawing them
against white skies,
two lines
graffited,
an awe
to the kids we were...?

i really
love birds,
their chirping a
winged colourway.

early morning,
a robin,
dark orange chest,
dead,
laying there,
on the door step.

i never remember
that birds do die
and their flight.

words like

whispers,

wondering
hawlings
in the corners
of houses in ruins.

words
like whispers,
the turmoil
of an aphasia.

inner-body
experience.

slow motion.

whispers.

fireflies
blown out
by nightly fingertips.

knowing not
how to unknow.

words like
whispers.

words
silently shouting
in turmoil.

All is nothing,
we all come to know it,
hélas.

Truly hellish
when a nothing
becomes everything

in its senseless
wholeness,

the wave's,

splashing.

Emptiness,
though,
sandy like,
in and out.

for SVERRE G. HOLTER, min venn
[04.06.1979 - 08.08.2018]

the harsh crash
of ice,
mountain climber,

out of breath.

horizon:
the sky line,
rocked in a sea of still.

whole hearted
chant
of a viking:

thrive
and love.

a core.
forever.

slimy moldy time

in the slum,
the slumber seclusion

dusts at dusk

blind,
blind and bound

the dark pound
misledly paints

water lilies
stained pains

a palette,
diluted

sand castles
& autumn leaves,
bygones
on yester
& days never to come

- none of that.

but
to grow back
where to
you never belonged,

wordless,

'cause you see it
clearly, now,

- that forgettable,
erasable you.
deleteable,
not delectable.

oh terminators
of seek and hope...

Early light in gold,
fresh hay in the dew gloss:
teardrop aquarelle,
outlining our hands' depart
as, still, i watch your sleep, quiet.