it's difficult
to love the works of your hands,
beautiful as they may be
when your words are loose and false.

i am seeking quiet places,
long nights full of few words
and only the presence of other bodies around.

i don't want to tell my story anymore,
there's too much of me
not enough of You.

every time my mouth opens, a sigh comes with it
and a groan that I am not speaking more of You
into this mouldy air, this bent earth swiftly tilting

quiet heart, be quiet soul
let me sleep- i have eyes heavy
for each moment of my breaking heart
for this world, for their hearts

for cold streets with
warm bodies on them; there are enough beds.
there is enough bread

i am less, but i will not be nothing
i will be a voice for your voiceless, who you cry for
who I will live for.
You.