It didn’t work, one walks the road back, running
down like a clock, and shall today lay



upon the bed what’s oozing, a straightjacket around
a bloodvessel, not much throbs, one had expected



it to liberate, cleanse, spirit
clarified in void, form of bread



but nothing, just that colour, red as a doornail, decay
that kept returning home, dead end



one leaves the room with oneself, one is
myself, above it crows, paint -