Zywa Overpressure

Shrill the whistle shrieks
a gash
No station to be seen
a signal

The pain in my stomach
a twinge
My blood, my life blood
a trace

Breathing to the wound
in and out
Thinking of you, of us
our loving

Gone the overpressure
of my hope
Steam, escaped to nowhere
and nothing

Poem 63
Amsterdam, 2007-03-03

Collection: Heart's Delight 
Keyword: Body: procreation 
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