In these strange lands I deposit my sleep
into a small percentage of the neat twenty-four boxes in which I can make a memory.
The clock runs 24 instead of two swings of 12.
I wish it could all be black and white
not Greenscale.
In the movement of the long white snake through the ocean of soft hills,
they glide up and down like a bloated wave in the See.
I stare blankly in disbelief at the rows of wise buildings.
As if they are unreal, like a theme park.
Rivers quietly saw through the hard earth
knowledgeable trees gather at her banks.
Vast and soft.
Green clouds of leaves.
And the airplanes slice through the heavens
leaving a trail of white blood.
Raging with accents of gold from the sun.
As she makes her journey to you, westbound, southbound, homebound.
Her last fingers of light drizzling inside me like golden syrup to sweeten the foul, rotten darkness that feasts on my starved love.
But I shall find sweet redemption, in these strange Femdlände of my blood.