It is not cosy
in my bodyhome, sweating
on the bed, I stretch out wide
to an X
(value unknown)
to cool down
but there is no wind
and the air is damp
with sorrow for my fate
and with fear that this is the last
I am able to sustain, that
thereafter, it will be too bad
(I'm not sure what -
sometimes it is too dark
then again the light shines too bright)
I need space and breath
to fight, I am a fighter
in my head and my belly
surrounded, constricted
and suffocated, plenty of air
but not for me?
Stings and cramps
for the danger, the gong rings
(for a new round)
Nice making of the agony of uncertain entity. Probability simply to catch the thread of any certain sting of life. Poem stands with the shinning glow of eternal essence of living. Thank you vary much.