Sunday, October 9, 2011


In the morning,
when I’m painting on my warrior face
I glide the stick over my bottom lip
stretching it slightly and releasing it
I wonder if the day will ask me
to wield my sword high
or if, instead
it will hang limp by my side
the events and the uneventfulness
of 24 hours passed
when I will put my warrior face
on again

I slowly move from my private room
to the playing field
the unpredictable ground
on which we stand still
on which we writhe and coil
on which we explode like
an unexpected thunderstorm

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