The biting fierce fresh cold
wind hits with the same
shock as when I was kicked
out of the crumbling stable
when the man who stayed out of
the stable by making sure it stayed
ignored the stable knowing animals can’t talk.

I was born in a twilight and assumed
to have been the one who yanked the sun
down,
yet I still insist that nothing was there
that I didn’t summon the darkness,
and I couldn’t have been another light
and lest they listen when I say
darkness is not something
but merely the absence of light
no, nor will they listen to the cold
and my cries that can’t leave my thoughts
because when you’ve been crying
for 10 years summoning another
tear is rather hard when you’re
born to a family of the
most valiant horses.

But I will continue
with the dressing up
going to museums because they are
warm and not because
I have any clue
who the hell Van Gogh is,
looking for a hand
from the painting to help me up
finally I see
what I’ve been looking for and run towards
the exit
to hear that an
angel was stolen.