fine, soul sold

you try in vain

to piece together a picture of me

from these ramblings i call poetry

alas, it is but abstract verse

borrowed sorrows are all I nurse

all made up fibs, all blatant lies

cold and distant winter skies

now i give nothing away

i write fiction anyway

this is not me anymore

this cold scream that pours forth

this hollow howl, it ain’t me

my spirit dwells elsewhere, free

forever beyond reach, I am

aloof from all that’s said

sitting with my feet up

and my hands behind my head

i am just a half amused onlooker

watching these ideas take shape

as staring deep into my eyes they  

listlessly caress the hair on my nape

and then escape through doors

of broken window panes

these ideas are whores

that titillate

you tread not on my dreams

but in elaborate sets that i create

lost amongst the smokescreens

of cold and foggy winter days

on shadows, broken, by blotches

that the dappled sunlight makes

as it filters through, inspite

of this swirling black dye

an inky black sky

cold cobblestones, weathered

blurry blobs of streetlights

the glass in your hand glittered

do you remember that night?

the sparsely crowded market square

in the fairytale town of bruges somewhere

do you remember what you said?

memories are lies i draw from my head

I asked you to stay, and bang bang

you shot me dead

do you remember that night?

no, that never happened, right?

go on and call my bluff

‘coz what you really said was

not enough