(robin

i’ve been helplessly rambling in the woods for a long time now.
i wouldn’t say that I’ve been ‘lost’ but I had certainly
screwed up the material map /
consciously thrown it out into the sapphire rushing rivers that tear across the forest.
like a sharp knife
tracing over the page
cutting away roots
a, papercut.

nothing inspired me, nothing invited me and nature was starting to
[…]

disappear

into the
creases of my paper.

my pen’s ink turned transparent and my paintbrush strokes were only used to cover my body in a protective layer.
the woods consumed me, stole my soul and ate it like a cannibal in front of me, exposing my green gut to the loneliness of the fallen, dead leaves and the darkness of the torn up soil.

and yet the sunlight managed to leak through the dimming expanse of the thatched forest sky

tree branches separated;
i saw trees standing in solitude, departed from the thick and crowded wooded area which was so dense with thoughts and thinkers and judging hawks and red-wine drinkers that i forgot of the robins in my brain. those sweet and small robins that live by my ankle and sing at night next to the street lights.
tree branches separated;

the poet lives on
the metrics of metre and rhyme mean nothing to one who has no -meaning- maybe my -meaning- was to not try and grab -meaning- but to lose -meaning- and grasp onto the hand of someone else.
let nature run her course
for
wards
back
wards
course her run nature let

just say that you don’t love me
and then i can love you.

for the poet lives on
through the distress and depress of her forest that is oppressed with fuss of being someone and something but let the robin in

let the robin in.

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