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Escape. 

Blue sky with milky stars, spiral your way here
and I shall trace your yellow circles all night long,
because breathing is not easy and passion often sleeps.

We sat under the cover of nightfall, drinking wine
and taking in the majesty of night.
Paris 1947, no more war.
The bullets took my father away from me,
now the evening air consoles me, playing with my hair.
“A croissant my dear?” I laughed at the cliché of it all.
Some things still will never be the same.
The taste of the death is the same for everyone;
first it gets hot and then it gets cold.
 
I draw on the window fog,
a finger slides on cold glass, squealing.
“Escape”. 
I can see right through the letters.

A man walks along the shoreline, waves licking at his feet;
erasing his footprints, deleting his presence, making him complete.
I once could hear freedom in the echo of seashells: “Hushhhh…”

Somewhere among the snowy dunes, a solitary tree stood bare
with its limbs spilling into the sky like black ink on a grey page, a refuge
for owls and the thundering foot of a spring hare. This is my home.
I am nestled amongst dry leaves and damp wood, a family of squirrels
has taken me in. 
Nature is gracious, wolves don’t belong in public.

These days, I live in lullabies.
One reality is better than none at all.

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