These days were not dark.
They also weren‘t light.
They were noise.
Sometimes yellow.
But mostly gray.
And she was not waiting anymore.
But wishing for things, still.
And into the distance that wasn‘t even one,
but rather an empty hole,
she whispered:
„Oh, if the world hadn‘t hurt you!
If only your eyes would sparkle!
And if the world hadn‘t scarred me.
And if only my voice could sing!
But would it even be us?
If our skin was whole,
and our souls untouched
by the nightmare of being alive?
Would it even be us,
without shadows emerging,
and raindrops painting?
I think not.
But while you‘re out there, chasing the nightmare, never forget that I am still here.“
Has he heard?
Against the noise,
and the yellow,
cascading into gray?
And if so,
would he grant himself to understand?
Would he turn around,
and give a kiss
onto those shadow cheeks,
as long as blood still runs through them?
She shakes her head.
The nightmare is reaching out for them once more.
Unloved tale
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Mistress witch writes 