Rigor mortis

Posted: august 13, 2013 in Criptat

Still as a body, I forget to move.
Legs are nowhere to be found
and the heart, ah, the heart,
does it still beat?

Strikes that come one after the other,
flesh is torn apart.
Another wound, another scar.

I am made of scars, bruises, scabs,
and wounds that never healed.
Each passage mattered, each kick
is deeply engraved in me.

My skin?
A mass of wrinkles, stretches, marks,
wounds and scars.
All can say out loud „I was there!”
Was I, really?
Gaps that stay unfilled,
Blanks that leave me colourless,
memories that use my skin
as parchment.

I’m shedding this skin as I go,
but the writings stay.
I step out of this body,
I leave it good for dead,
I leave it still and stiff,
To forget what it means to feel.

And then I go dead.
There is calm, there is peace.
There is void in this rigidity,
there is nothing to be felt,
there is nothing more to say.

One more blow, one more bruise,
One more word, another cut,
One more story, one more scar,
One more void, another drop.

There is a little bit of death
in each cut.
There is a little bit of hope.
There is some life left
in this trickle of blood.
There is despair,
that the pain won’t be enough.

There won’t be enough of me
for all that’s to be written down,
for all the pain this body
just can’t take in.

Scratch by scratch,
blow by blow,
bruise by bruise,
cut by cut,
scar by scar.
I destroy just to better build.

Memento mori.



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