Once again, you thunder.
The mental squall blowing me away from the present, again.

Emotional hostage-taking attempt. Mind-jacking.
You won’t get me.

The rumble of your words does not pierce through my songs of peace.

The daylight break-ins, in the entangled stitches of the context,
when you drag me me to this former plane, turning all articifial spotlights on me,
you can no longer corner me like that.

I am not guilty of anything.
And have not been prosecuted.

You’re aiming at my oily skin for one of your age-old judo holds. I don’t blame you.
You’re wading in the impossibility to compensate for the lack of grip on the world.

But you’re just further digging the unhappy in yourself and in those who happen to enter all these scenes,
Your never ending, cyclical, ritual scenes of destruction.

You scream for help, with a knife in your hand, and don’t understand why no one comes to help you.
From now on, I’ll remain silent.

Franck Joseph
©FJ August 2021 – All Rights Reserved
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