to be born into the grave
not willing, nor able
the lilacs growing eventually in spring
lulled gently by the cradle
the rotting carcasses of unfulfilled wishes tipping over the edges,
growing like mold
it didn’t have to be that way but it was
and it became the march through the night all of us
like the dance macabre
became morbid figures
dancing the night away
it wasn’t like we had a chance to become
ourselves or anything
after all,
a birth rooted in death is, figuratively, an preemptive strike
living
like burning candles in the wind
not really understanding the meaning of heat
it is fragile
Text: Beate Björkengren
Image: Alexander Norton, “Was ist loss?”, 2015
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