An Empty Wall Of Thoughts

Since a long time

I live hidden

In the mountain

Surrounded by blind people

Busy with themselves

And others not noticing

Me more than my body and presence

The tower is damp and cold

I am a bitter old man

Writing and thinking

Finding little joy in life

While the battle for survival

Goes on in the valley

Few will ever read my thoughts

Long after I am gone

Only the flowers will

In their own way

Enjoy me and my ash

Very well worth

it the price of a great price for a great price

Gone behind the lines

On the other side

Party Time

I am trapped

In a corner

With a lot of introverts

Steering a the party

Like zombies

What will this be?

How was this possible

They are now starting

To observe me

Maybe the zombies

Will eat me

Before the party

Is over?

Changing Stories

Creating a new narrative

Another story about myself

About the world

Forgetting that

Life moves Within its own dynamic

Very different from what we

Know and want or understand

Being a short lived flower

By the ocean

Invisible

Traveling along the small trail in

Far north

The road keeps turning

This road

Were once used by the

German Vermacht

Built by the Germans

After they hunted all the

Islanders away

This is not a road but still a road

Overgrown by flowers and nettles

Like history itself more

Fiction than fact

But still underneath

The stones and gravels

Are there as well as some

Barbed wire

Doggerland

The coast is lost

The safe haven gone

The rising water

Changed everything

Our beloved land

Now under water

For thousand of years

To come,

Hiding our monuments

And our ancestors dreams

The barren cliffs and marshes

Will be ours to keep

Fighting the sea and

The others

Creative Self Destruction

Remembering all the loses

I had in my life

The incomplete feeling of

Being incompetent

Being in the wrong place

The wrong time

All the time!

What matters is

The things that gives

Strength and hope

No problems are solved

By self destruction

Inner Battle

Fighting an inner enemy

A game that cannot be

Won at any moment

Fighting myself

I turn out to be the

Loser whatever

I do

The Poets Lamentation

Poetry is always a lost cause

No money no readers and

Very little encouragement

We poets are like the Albatros

Free in the Wind but lost

Onboard the ship that is

The rest of humanity

So, yes Baudelaire is right

We poets are not that good

In taking a fight

But here we are

This our time

On earth

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