What if,
what if my words are coming out,
to summon monsters from a child
if each of roads I take splits after a while
and no book wants to stay forever on the bookshelf that I choose?

Let me share the starry mornings after blacking out the night
having coffee in the garden on a swing under the grapes,
love builds pouring wine onto your lower lips
and in confession kneeling to the priest,
darling, don’t forget to kiss….

Do not sip, open up and have this drink
we’ll be crying playing bands from ’96,
all I cared for leave in Tromsø hiking daily in the woods
long have rusted our dreams on a German royal bridge
and in days my nights be spilling seeking for a better self…

What if each of steps this stairway asks be taken brings one closer to the Sun
and so my wings are inked in blood and not glued feathers on
for once to taste the ale with Muninn
planted seeds to grow an army;
what if I must write this story with the ashes of the old?