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the little match girl passion: she again rubbed a match

de David Lang

Here I am
clad in habit
hidden king
in a frail appareance
involved in a maelstrom
of continous 'n' invisible
ardour
glass beetween you and the mirror
victim 'n executioner
of myself
incomprehensible occult mistery
the eyes that look at me from the other side
of my own world
how could I break trough
if I first don't break trough me?
How many other chords I've to crash
before I'll lye in a bed of stars?
Me,cloud without sky
what should I pray
to have you never feel the same
what have you do?
I feel not true
I've lost my words
in a labyrinth of thoughts
clouds (that) are on me makes
breathless scream in vain
what you think of me?
All apologies!

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