Mealy-mouthed, the words send
you out of your house
out of your expectations
into the bush of hope
the white powder

that sticks to you
but is fading more and more
with your own bones and flesh
as the only support
for your thoughts

your Midgard, middle yard
of known regions, surrounded
by the endless of mountains
a jungle in the south
and the ocean in the west

where the serpent rules, the monster
the mealy mouth speaks of
to save you from its jaws
opened wide to devour
if you are afraid