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i Mar 2014
pm
12.00pm--
now she was floating
in thin air.
she couldn‘t see herself
because she was not
even there.

13.00pm--
she barely heard
the police siren in the
far distance.
she could feel her ghost
slowly separating from
her bleeding body.

14.00pm--
all she felt were hands,
number of hands touching her,
all over her body, examining
her like she was a science project.
she didn't like it.
but soon she was going to be with
him, and that's what calmed her.

15.00pm--
finally, she was finally gone.
she didn't exist anymore.
all she was now,
was a spirit, while
her lifeless body was in
an old coffin.

16.00pm--
before she went and saw him,
she wanted to know how her
mom was holding up.
she certainly didn't expect this,
her only daughter to be dead.
nobody did.

17.00pm--
she saw him.
just a glimpse of him,
but still.
he was here, with her.
finally, they were together,
where they truly belonged.

18.00pm--
she was now in london.
she left the rainy and dull
germany and went here.
she was just a ghost,
she could go anywhere
she wanted.
after a long tine, she was
happy,
whatever that meant, now.

19.00pm--
she hasn't seen him.
she was exploring the world,
but she could sense something
was missing.
it was him.
and she would do anything
in her power to find him.
after all, she killed herself for him.

20.00pm--
he still wasn't found.
she didn't even know where she was,
heaven or hell?
it didn't feel like any of those.

21.00pm--
she was torn.
this wasn't heaven.
nor it was hell either.
it felt like something,
bittersweet.

22.00pm--
she went by her house.
she shouldn't have.
she saw her mom,
crying her eyes out on the
dinning room table.
she felt quilty, for once.
and she kept watching as
her mom screamed and cursed
at the world for her daughter‘s death.

23.00pm--
it wasn't in her nature,
but she gave up.
she shouldn't have,
but she was worn out.
her death, her dying,
was a mistake.
but she realized it a little too late,
and now it was impossible to
turn back time.
Peter Heerings Jul 2015
MH17.... one year further

The grief of families
The loss of lives
Bodyparts in the winter landscape
A year flies
But the 298 victims
They don't speak
They don't cry
They just rest
The rest of the innocent
And the quilty rest
Might never be caught
While the toys as ever hold their tongues
- Heerings July 2015
Who will forgive me for the things I do?
With no special legend of God to refer to,
With my calm white pedigree, my yankee kin,
I think it would be better to be a Jew.

I forgive you for what you did not do.
I am impossibly quilty. Unlike you,
My Friend, I can not blame my origin
With no special legend or God to refer to.

They wear The Crucifix as they are meant to do.
Why do their little crosses trouble you?
The effigies that I have made are genuine,
(I think it would be better to be a Jew).

Watching my mother slowly die I knew
My first release. I wish some ancient bugaboo
Followed me. But my sin is always my sin.
With no special legend or God to refer to.

Who will forgive me for the things I do?
To have your reasonable hurt to belong to
Might ease my trouble like liquor or aspirin.
I think it would be better to be a Jew.

And if I lie, I lie because I love you,
Because I am bothered by the things I do,
Because your hurt invades my calm white skin:
With no special legend or God to refer to,
I think it would be better to be a Jew.

— The End —