once again a poet stopped
his world and
euphemism colors the word that
tripped him
curbed him
urged him
as if it was a mere dent in his landscape
a hollow of his skin
as if his breath was temporarily held
by a lower pressure in his atmosphere
the fingers of
mourners and judges point in solace at
this genteelism of the unimaginative
of those who never felt
the draw of the black nothingness that
sucks you in and spins its
deadly threads
around
your brain
tells you tomorrow is no option
the future is not yours to have

Categories: Books
Tagged: depression, poet, suicide, Wim Brands
Heel mooi, maar erg verdrietig. Zojuist zijn laatste bundel gekocht. Ben er nog steeds door aangeslagen.
LikeLike