Heute morgen, beim Kaffeekochen,
Wieder die Rose, Herzform sogar.
Ihre Blätter gaben sich auf als der
Spiegel sank, während ich schrieb,
Dass das Magazin dasselbe tat.
Ob sie es bringen, keine Ahnung.
Die Blätter sanken weiter zum Grund,
Verschwanden in der engen Tiefe.
Ich goss noch mal nach, bevor
Die Kanne zum Rand gefüllt war.
Den Morgen kann man immer retten.
(C) 2025
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| 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 |
| 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 |
| 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | |
You see, here you'll find poems and prose of opportunity and seasons. They're ours, though, so we have to protect them. Respect! Thank you!
Readers are welcome! If you are willing to follow the iconian path, you should know that it is always you we are talking to, even if it is not. And that everything is true, even if it is not. We all are eternally united in the last space possible where even the impossible is real. We ought to believe the foretold: If we'll meet tomorrow, next year, or never, it doesn't matter, it's only time! And everything, even time is fiction.
By the way, typos and other mistakes - we know there are many. If you can be bothered, please let us know. Thank you! And for any legal issues, please contact us before we have to tell you that we're skinned. But you can also write, of course, if you like what you read. Please, write to the webmaster.
