“Did I kill them?”, I ask my witch.
There are things buried inside
that drowned within
as a silent scream in the chest
suffocating in the back of the head
These things that are buried somewhere within
These things that died
and left 1000 scars
are dreams.
Dreams die inside.
They hide in the deep
where melodies end
where there is no laughter
and light cannot find them
that is where they crawl
where they suffer in silence
never to be found.
Dreams are easily forgotten.
„I‘ve forgotten how to dream!“
Layla, I can dream no more.
Oh Layla, my dreams are dead.
Dead with the image of self
that is wrinkled
with torn edges
and a whole in the middle
right there to the left.
Oh Layla, I have murdered my dreams!
Did I build this wall
with this bricks that aren‘t solid?
Is my foundation
drowning in the sea?
Is this flesh rotten,
although I am breathing?
„Can you tell?“
For my dreams to wake up, I am supposed to tell.
I‘m supposed to find them,
there in the darkest place,
to wake them,
keep them,
and never let go.
„This journey sucks”, sighs a soul that is soar.
Mistress witch writes 