In the night, the same lightbulb burns in the room,
shimmering like a falling star. In spite of that your

humour opens new avenues of torn eyelids trying
to capture the second by second charms of the circus.

I stand like a symbol between open and closed, muscles
hurting from sitting too long. Needing to evaporate the

marching army of belittled statements sharing the
same burnt popcorn from the same plastic bag.

War was declared, not too long ago. You declared it
and than left me to cover the flag with my disappointment.

My hands wielding so much power to maim whatever I will.
Do you still believe in blasphemous words? Do you still

tremble when a man rumbles against your body? Cupboard
doors are closed, but that is just as one would expect. Inside

them are the cans of pretense lined up like coins in a pocket.
I expect nothing anymore. You give out candy to the children,

grabbing it back before they can eat it. This is the slipping of
my faith. The stumbling of my feet when I try and walk through

the contradictions you have paraded. We might never talk
in any manner again. That would be like sliding into the

car and starting the engine. Waiting for the roar of rushing
air that would escape from the tires. It's hurting. Must be

the lightbulb burning out. Replacing it would cost too many
situations. I'd rather not tell you anything. I'd rather let the

ongoing noise of the battle rage on. Cover myself with a
blanket and pretend to sleep, taking a drag of my cigarette.

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