Written by: Uwe Stroh

The helicopter is tired
of poking its probiscus
into the dam
In the fields
the harvesters are
looking for somewhere
to rest a while
As you climb your
stairwell to heaven
on every other floor
you hear applause
once it was the echoes of despair
but now your bike
has no gears
and the shavings of
your mind you used
to use for fuel
have all burnt up
and the helicopter
is tired again 
the stairwell has
become a labyrinth
and the harvesters continue
not to find rest
but the probiscus
has given you a fever
that if you were a child
it would have
finished right there
but you keep climbing
like the smoke
driven ever upwards
by the heat
of the inferno
way down below
but that's
as it is.