my ash shall
go with the wind
a pinch over the coastline
and the residue
over the weeping grass
light the fire in the sky
and I will be fine

I, with barely opened eyes
see, how your atrocious glory spies
through the half-opened window
  but my paltry, languid soul calls for rest,
  in her old and weathered skin,
  and would she sway in the wind,
  she for sure would loose herself
god, close the curtains and let me dream
I need to sleep, sleep, sleep

They say pain
makes poetry
so I wondered why
I hadn't been writing
then I remembered
pain is not what I'm feeling
it's what I'm yearning
in all this feeling
of numb

I decay in white rivers
   next to my mothers house
the old, green coat of yours
still covers all of your skin
but the wind took you from me
   and left me utterly naked
with parched veins here I lie
   above you the ground, above me the sky