burning bridges

so you are burning the bridge with a little, almost tender hope that anybody will notice the gap.

and that the ship, the dull masts of which are towering over the port, will have to sail.

even when there is no other soul left to be spent.

and if it sails it will sail directly into your hollow eyes, the heartless eyes of january’s esperance.

the frosty hours will swallow the cries of reserved perseverance.

and the ruins will mark the path into the moist landscape of the soul.

 

::: a perennial shiver down a spine :::