Y6week19 breathing spell

hey. i'm sorry for being around so little, posting so late and not commenting much. this week was insane, just working, eating and a few hours of sleep. no excuse, of course. anyways, just put my scribbles of this week's tram rides into something readable. needs tweaking, but (before sunday is officially over) here it goes:

breathing spell

i was packing my bag when the telephone rang
i was dropping a name in the makeshift attempt
to crouch down behind outdated newspaper piles
with snowdrift hands over my ears
and a foot on a sore in the floorboard,
yes, a foot in a trapdoor

i was packing my bag when the telephone rang
i was leaving, but not planning an elaborate escape
merely a few steps to the side, for cobwebbed eyelids
while glistening in the morning,
hoard corpses of past nights,
likewise, think paper cut smiles

paper cut smiles are sometimes worse than gaping wounds
swift as their progress is, at the tiniest movement, they tear again

so when the telephone rang,
with a wind rose poem stitched to my chest,
as close to a warm chocolate stomach as then possible,
i followed my foot down a trapdoor
in hope for a day-old treasure map
from a jumble sale or piano bench
to unplug the phone and escort me
to a rocking chair,
just steps from here,
where i am almost back walking
in the afterglow of words painted on walls

- a breathing spell until the nauseous ring fades
a breathing spell before i move away.

(well, or: "a breathing spell before i move again"... also, maybe "clutch" instead of "hoard")
the sore in the floorboard comes out of the marvellous novel "book thief" by markus zusak that i have begun reading (again, on tram rides :wink: ) and the wind rose poem refers to a beautiful german poem by kerstin preiwuß (therein, she spoke of a body split into 4 parts according to the compass dial directions, but with its heart intact).

cheers,
straycat.