The Tingling Lake

your raincoats and jumpers
won’t save you from hatred
for depression and anger are not spilled
but warmed into you
and henceforth you will feel
their welcoming tingle
inducing darker eyes
into the unholy night
for daytime is merely admin
but when the darkness falls
and the creatures of hatred crawl
among the sacred
the empty bottles beneath your feet
cannot even save you
------
and when the tingling lake flows
in between my toes
I see no one better who knows
but the obscurity in front of me
and the blasphemy in my hand
and everything sinful sends me to a land
where it is even dark in the daytime
and I do not need
he or she or you or it
for this is all that I belong to
------
and maybe the comforts of poetry
will save me
and keep me encaged
where there is no need for escape
-----
and to keep in every breath
that death, indeed, is looming
is merely to convince myself
that life is for nothing but living
so that death becomes something sweet
awaiting at the end of this steep
endless hill
therefore making it my relief
-----
and maybe nothing, then, is real
and carelessness thus does appeal
for you can say what you will
and stand on the highest hill
or scream from your windowsill
but my ears are tuned tight
to hear the rustle of night
over your forceful might
that I do not care for at all
so stand tall
man with power
and remind me that I am
merely
a wilting flower
at the bottom of this tingling lake
and I will whisper
(silently to myself
and the night)
that you shall do exactly
as you are told
and I will firmly hold
with expression so careless and bold
my position at the bed of this lake
at the foot of this life
in the darkness of your rules
where I see no need
(no will)
to escape