These days leave me speechless, deeply shaken with anger and fear. Even worse: I feel like I‘m utterly useless. Raising my single voice, yet there‘s noone to hear. But what if we raised our voices in one big choir-like scream, to wake those who still think there are choices, to …
„Can I touch your tattoo?“
is the question that you
ask me softly and shy.
I say no, and you ask „Why?“
„Cause my skin feels the same,
even if now there‘s a flame
and a phoenix on the rise.
What you need to realize,
is that if you touch my arm,
it might do us harm,
in a way we never knew before:
You might want to touch me more.
More of my body, all of my skin.
No, there‘s no use to begin
a game that might get dangerous,
when both of us get ravenous
for each other‘s kiss and touch.
So I just tell you that much:
By touching my tattoo
you‘d be breaking a taboo,
which might take us too far
and leave us with a scar
not on our skin, but on our hearts.
So let‘s end it, before it even starts.“
Just as I ever imagined, nothing is as I ever imagined. Never mind what I was dreaming of. Never mind that dreams are wearing off at the seams. And it really seems that I‘m losing ground. And I think I found no lasting justification for continious perpetration of this crime …
Pieces of a feather floating on a light wave of air. Wintery spring mornings awaken to pastel skies. The moon perishes as she longs for her other half. It‘s cold at the station. All of creation is waiting For seconds of summer. (Copyright Ines Langs, February 25, 2019)
There’s that little girl. She’s not more than two years old. She’s exploring the world on a bright autumn day. She enters the meadow and sees that big, big tree. She steps up to it, puts her little hands onto it and pushes with all her might. She’s wondering why …
There are times, when you stand before a wall. All you see is that wall. No way leads ahead, and you can’t go back, either. You don’t see that you could maybe take a few steps to the left or to the right to get around that wall and to …
Sitting here at my desk, nervous, with a heartbeat far too fast, waiting for something to happen … But for what? My fingers hardly obey my mind’s instructions on typing the words in the correct order of letters. Typos by the score, yet at the same time my writing is …