i want to sleep through all the lasts,
pull the covers up over my head
and skip the ending.
the endings.
the peeling away after months of layers.
i can't walk that way anymore,
they're grown to be more than ghosts,
congealed, and barricading my path.
i harp, i harp, but
every four months i open my
eyes to a foreign room with a foreign view
while my soul's landscape
remains german.
you're shaking my foundation
and i'm crumbling all over again.
"homesick because i no longer
know where home is."
kings, i never knew.
i match the scenery surrounding the rhein.
i blend into the black forest background,
like a figure who leapt out of a chagall
and clashes everywhere
until she is pasted back in.
a colour portrait wandering through
greyscale frames, or vice versa.
the say i look always to be at ease.
are you blind?
or am i so well disguised?
it must be the mustache.
