There is Sun

leaking in through drawn blinds

stinging the corner of my eye

and beckoning me to come past

my inhibitions.


There’s a drawing

of a tree

that I made when I was young,

it was my alma-mater,

my blood pact with reality.


I never faded,

I only grasped on to whatever gave life,

however temporary

and latched on

begging to make it to tomorrow.


Quivering in ice water

glacier fed,

mountain grown.

This projection of immovable will

breaking though the crust of the Earth

rising to the sky,

like a middle finger to the Almighty.


Or a wave,

or a warding hand

that says;

“I am buried too deep for grave robbers.”

Under the spine of the world.

the future waits,

like a great dragon.





Leave a Reply