when the moon is rising
like in the gothic novels
i sneak up over the wall
of the lost paradise

barefoot i step
on the green grass of the truth
my blood merges
with the dew of the resurrection

hypochondriac ghosts are begging
i throw them
sawdust of temptations

i take off my words
and set them up
as a scarecrow for angels
in the field of salvation

i wander about
through underground corridors
in a hand with an eye forever open
an axe of ice in the other
i cut off the roots of the tree
with too many branches

on my return
i’m carrying up the flesh
in the same way a jesus on drugs
is carrying up his cross
to the golgotha of immortality

in the morning
i wake up crucified on the bed sheet

god what a fountain is hiding
in the field of my solitude