My good intentions have returned
undeliverable and broken, they stick
to me like a failed cake
encrusted to the baking tin
in an oven which is set too hot
Stone-hard charred crust
After weeks of rubbing the scratches
continue to itch in my soul, they scream
for attention and recognition
In the station hall, I listen for hours
to the playing of the piano, the messages
and the rustling
of the destination signs
which do not point me any direction
for a journey
to a better world
improvable with people
like me, strangers
At home I keep the curtains closed
the walls have no windows
and there is nothing I want to see
Collection βMoonsβ
