Art, Filosofia, Philosophy, poetry, prose

She’s home

Surrounded by screams, tears and vomit; altogether, thrown against her face “she can smell death and pleasure

The more the less – anger and life, sorrow and pleasure. All together, nobody.

She chooses to be all, forgetting the one that counts. Slowly she’s losing herself, disappearing, mingling with the thick fog, blended with despair.

As the body vanishes the soul rises against the multitude gathered all around.

She’s the only one wrapped up by disturbed voices like arrows shot right through her nightmare.

Too soon
Too Late
Now she is at home


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