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

 

s-middags-zwem-ik-in-de-noordzee.jpg