Saturday Evening

Winter was a time for creation.

Enigma

After a harrowing vacation,
our hero finds himself on the verge again:
The status quo, he knows,
is made to shatter.

My mind smells like
pee in my grandfather's underwear,
not that I would know.

Not that you would know:
Don't laugh at me, because
under this layer of skin
is a power --
don't you know who I am?

Broken toes by doors,
opened hastily. We never know
if it is worth the pain.

Like I said,
Like he said --
Go, where the man is pointing
(the man in the sky,
the ballerina of time),
follow his demands,
for in truth,
you will follow the rivulets
in the sand.

Follow this,
and the following will remain
silent: ---