I've always been the one back in the car
driving from behind, while the others sit with pride.
I didn't care whether I am noticed or not,
maybe afraid from the weight I'd get, if I sat in front.
But, I've always held the wheel, never closed my eyes,
I never put my trust in them, for that is what I am.

It's been all the same,
until you climbed in the back and said:
"Is this the place where I sit?"
Afraid again I am,
for what I want is you to stay here.
Afraid again I am,
for yet I again I fear that I would care.
I saw that you like the back more,
but they won't stop calling you in the front, for sure.
For the clean soul you also are,
you are afraid to listen to your own that you very much want.
You'll listen the others, for the caring soul you are.
I can not drag you back, for that is what I am.
Steady now, think what you want,
I say that, because I do care.
You can put your belt,
I know that you like it here.
You'll be better off.
I do welcome you to stay.

I am quiet.
The silence I favor,
but not the one that dams every thought
that bubbles around our heads.
I'd like to rip it apart,
but I'll drown from the ripped quiet dam.
That silence I don't favor.
I am quiet again.

Down in my bed in the solace of night
drops of rain from slumber keep me apart
and the warmth of the thick yet soft blanket
plays no hand in the freezing of my breath.
Impatient, the shadows of the hollow tree
branch out, tirelessly dancing with my eyes
on the wall lighted by the lone street lamp,
timid in it's work, until it dies out.
A stale taste weighs from under the skin,
rashing my thoughts, unpleasent it is.
In tempo, the drops still in my head drum,
the taste I can't get out, the pound I can't stop.
At unease I am, for thick is the dream.

Time,
Yet I glimpse again,
yet again.
We never stop, do we?
It moves? It counts? Is it alive?
Or we just mark it as such?

Time,
Thrown in a waveless lake
waves the lake,
but the waves pass
And yet again
It is back to calm.

Time,
A circle they say,
That is how it looks from above.
Even if it is a line for us,
We only see as far the horizon.
I just hope that is true.

Time,
Yet I glimpse again,
yet again.
It never really stops.
It does move, it counts, it is really alive.
As long as we are here to mark it as such.

A story I read yesterday
about a father and son playing chess.
They were sitting over the board for hours now
arguing who is the king.
Which of those pieces wooden on that surface flat,
should be the one to be king.
The son was thinking and thinking, but he could not tell.
Troubled after a while he thought,
why his father asked him that.
"Who is the king? Who has always been king?"
Countless times before they played,
the question always remained the same.
The father, his son, he persistently asked -
who is the king?
The son like his father,
he wasn't an easy mind.
He wouldn't give up to a question so simple;
He was determined to prove his father wrong.
So many riddles by his father he cracked easy,
but this one, just wouldn't come to mind.
Protect it! Protect the king!
- said the father, with warm smile upon his son.
And the son deep in thought with fingers crossed
was just looking over the board;
..even more and more confused..
Moments ago I watched something.
It was a memo for a dead man.
On a beach that man was the father.
He played with his child around.
They were swirling in circles in the salty air,
before he rode into his last sunset.
Then the question hit me again - who is the king?
The screen went dark and the lights flickered to light.
Elevating murmur filled with clap, filled the room.
I turned back and I saw..
That father, that child, over and over again.
..everywhere, the whole room..
One jumping around, one sitting calm,
one excited, can't wait for fun,
the other just looking for his last piece of popcorn.
I watched upon those daughters and sons,
and then I realised who is the king.

Oh no,
it was not of the ordinary kind.
It was not the ****** ****,
to leave a puddle in the bath.
It was not reckless, it was not thoughtless.
It was a **** of no other kind.

Oh when I think of it
and when I hear the crows
hovering above in the sound of the bell.
That rusty bell, when the sun is gone,
together with the crows,
on time they all sing,
precise as the ****.

Oh no,
it wasn't a bullet, shot in shake and fear,
it wasn't a sloppy slip, one fast and quick.
It was a **** foresighted and long before known.
It was silent, yet loud and felt.
A type of ******,
when a queen murders a king.

A type of killer she was,
who put poison in the chunk of bread
in the sight of the murdered.
That food was sweeter than life,
when eaten from the fingertips of the sensational murderess.
It was swallowed with joy,
yet known it is poison.

Simple, when looked from far,
venom she whispered and sipped,
from the killer red dry lips,
that ate away the skin.
Not a spot when on the spotlight,
she is a predator of no other kind;
The killer, claws the prey,
with the most gentle of touch.

It was not a moment, a blink of some day,
it was over and over,
every gasp, every second of every day.
It was not a knife to the back,
it was clean and open - wound to the front;
Facing her gaze,
oh, she pierced it right in the heart.
It was the sharpest of blades, over and over again...
As they say,
there are few swords that cut so deep,
as the blade of unrequited love.

As I walk now in the sun's light of noon
and remember the days,
I still feel the warmth of air passing in my open heart;
I still taste the blood of my already fallen skin.
I writhe a little...
Then I softly grin,
from cheekbone to chin -
I think of the time when you murdered me.