fog, maybe killers on the road

they come through the fog

with knives, pale riders,

armies of dead surgeons,

wading in their own broth



and poison soup that eats

them from inside and outside,

the opinion sayers, the owners

of truth, of results and answers



to love, to life, to death.

they analyzed everything and 

each one to turds with disgust,

they say they are human



and that it is their right

and their duty to think

and that people are like

pests and that only animals



and trees are worthy.

it is true they should 

maybe kill themselves

and  not talk on holiness.

i know they come through

fog and i see fog as grace

veiling the slaughterers 

and absorbing their voices

so i can sleep a little longer

and wake without the noise

of bitterness and without

the stink and smell of wars.

i cannot tell them because

they would turn my words

after the first or the second

into black puddles dripping

out of  meat grinders,

ugly, meaningless,

and they'd say: see,

this is you.

note: as much as i see the essence, feel it, i see the killer in us, in you,
in me, i see Lucifer who brought a light to create darkness, the destroyer
with a thousand arms, the thinker who wants to rule our story.
i see so so many black holes, and i hope some of them may show themselves
to be tunnels to a spring meadow with flowers allover and soft cushions
of moss below branches loaded with green and with apple blossoms.
well, do i hope? i don't know.