And here I am, in front of your door. 

A walking alive with his soul dead,

A guest from the morgue, 

The mental mortuary.

You door is oak,

A huge thick oak. 

Ten times thicker than surrounding birches

It wouldn’t nudge. 

Grim. 

The word you used

To describe my soul. 

Flat. 

The word you used

To describe my mind. 

Grave. 

The word you used

To describe my world. 

Wait! 

The word I used,

But achieved nothing. 

Your window is facing south. 

I shoot it with words

From the gun of my mouth. 

Bullet-proof glass.  

Outside is a black rain of fire

Coming at me from the skies. 

A madness choir

Quietly cries. 

You are safe in your hollow, 

I’m under the sky of seeds,

Under the eyes of stars that follow

My mighty lead. 

Helpless like a god,

But purposeful, like a drunk poet. 

It’s too late to leave. 

The black hole got me. 

The paws of universe

Are pushing my face. 

I hope they don’t

Affect my grace. 

A mountain goat

Jumping on rocks,

Hoping not to

Get ripped by hawks,

I am no more.  

Might. 

The word I say to get feeble. 

Confidence. 

The word I say to hide in the corner. 

Courage. 

The word I say to flee in terror. 

Love. 

The word I say to get problems, 

For my bone head. 

Yes! My head is bone, 

Although you think it is steel. 

Trying to make it blow

Will make a crack that cannot be healed. 

A worm with a deep mental

World. 

If I was a woodpecker

I would’ve pecked your oak.

A worm with a deep mental

Hell. 

If I was a woodcutter

I would’ve chopped your oak.

Would I?

I wish I was born as

A worm with a bright mental

Heaven.

But such don’t exist. 

You cut me in half, but here I am,

In front of your door. 

I’m healthy and good,

Immortal worm.