The risen Black Swan (in the eye of the wind)
I Tears for supper
The water tastes bitter
The sea is oversalt
A Face is formed in glitter
And melting in assault
Ruins of a space reunion
Showing the reversed and the cursed
At a last communion
before the dam burst
Tears for supper
A cloudburst in the butter
The fish
Not able to grab
It's a failing
Rather keep on sailing
Or flying
Just keep on trying
Besides the dish is a pelican flying through the rain
A stain on the feeling of pain
A Plaster on the lament
The fish on the sand
A sign of Hope appearing on the Firmament
As a tired pose is trying to Expose.
The Swan just rose.
But not out of slaughter,
because of the water,
It was oversalt,
like an aussault.
The risen black swan.
Wings looking like a Blade,
a Phönix in the Shade,
to transform in the morn,
In the wind.
A Statue stranding on the land,
Rejected by the sand
Besides the dish
A blade in the fish
Circling around
In the center
Forming a hole for the wind to enter.
While the sky is looking as white as if it wants something to fix.
In the trees, the Swan is looking like a crucifix.
And I hope the Swan isn't too tired to make a stand,
or to keep the weapon at hand,
but I guess it is dammed.
To be
And To set free
And in the last bite,
it's already Night,
the fish gets up, smiles
and leaves.
While in love the swan weaves,
a carpet and a handkerchief to leave,
in the empty cabin of grief
And Salt is made in the why, we ask before we cry, as we have tears for supper while we go upper.
And the swan is ready to fly
Not knowing, that there is only on step ahead,
before touching the sky.
--
II The wind goes upper
Everyone is going somewhere and most of them in a hassle
and I sit in a tired stare,
before I will come to you from my black Castle.
Like a calm down,
To the river, which is golden brown.
I fight windmills,
Im determinative,
but the wind is the force
and I attended, I agreed to write this horse.
And I long to blow the wind,
even if the trees don't Look inclined.
I'm floating in the Wind,
I'm unbind,
Until I'm the wind aligned
The flowers are starting to wilt
I'm a feather covered in Black silk,
tumbling in the Wind.
The leaves are Snowblind,
as if I'm the headwind.
At least Im flying,
but I guess the windmills keep on denying.
I want to be a change for Good
Stting in the Rain on my Golden Hill
Around me a Black hood
Next to a windmill
But I'm a Love Overkill
And I think of Francis of Acici
"Let Love Live to its greacy"
While I guess some of my points of weak,
maybe also a weapons, which I guess weren't earned cheap,
is that im always able to forgive.
Some absolute thoughts that I keep,
which to some seem irrelevative.
And a certain seriousness which is just decorative.
"The one whos hands cover the Head, as if it's falling apart,
while Love is shining out of the heart
is God as an Artist"
And the Wind is the harpist.
I hear Zebulon on the Tabula Rasa, as im levitating to begin again.
And I hear Zebulon on the Tabula Rasa, as I write these words before and after.
And the wind had tears for supper on its way to go upper.
It's a head clearer,
A shelter and a Love spearer,
A clear bag to carry my Soul
A mirror out of water
A stimulator and a hole.
Maybe sometimes wings, made out of heartstrings
And I had some thoughts for supper, I am just the Receiver and a giver on my way to fly upper,
I'm a clear River in the sky
And this is a wind eye.