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Dånet från jaktskolan blandas med suset från 22or

Smatter, suckar och långsamma andetag

Morgonens dagg glider sakta ned på färskgrönt gräs medans stora sagosvampar tittar fram

Justering av remmar och klickande patroner

En tia, en tia, en mygga i håret

En nia

Solens strålar sveper sakta över tavlorna

Medans vinden står knäpptyst

Ett barn nynnar i bakgrunden

Gubbar harklar

Eld upphör

From my safe

Stylized cavern

I watch

As worlds of others

Collapse

At the pressure of an

Angry Russian man

From my safe

Tucked in

Corner of the world

I see on the news

Angry Russian man

Floods of refugees

Children and mothers

Holding hands with

ghost male lovers

— Bodies left behind

Now my safe

Square-feet

No longer soothe

They bunker tins and cans

Basements stand to attention

In case of an

Angry russian man

Tha thump

Tha thump

So beats his heart

My thoughts drone out

To his safe melody

Tha thump

Tha thump

My conscious ebbs and flow

Softly rising with gentle

Sleeping slumber

Tha thump

Tha thump

A melody turns two

Harmonizing in dreams

With you

Trees wade in lilac moss

Tufts of silver green crowns

Leave way for the golden beams

That tenderly kiss the rocks

Shrubbery bubbles and sprouts

Dawning new upon the turf

bright, innocent, rebellious

Pine

Wisdom watches aged

Time lingers patiently

Proud parents prune and hide

Their young from eternal sunshine

Unknowing saplings strive to survive

All-knowing age deliberately outshines

It's so strange

Coming back to a place

You once saw

as home

Only to return and

Recognize everything

- Yet nothing

Not being able to

Place your finger

On what changed

Only to see it pointing

At your own

blank reflection.

In unknown,

Dusty windows

The rest

Swirls like snow

And buries

The hope

Of being back

To a known everyday

Plain, and gray reality

But it's okay

Given time

It'll melt

And the asphalt

Reveals the same

Pavement

You walked

When it was home

A white house

At the foot of a hill

Stands patiently

While winds caress

Nurturing gentle erosion

It firmly lingers

And embraces

Man-made walls

Between wooden planks

It sizzles and cools

Teasing naked tree branches

Outside the window

Creaking, it groans

Every stillness heard

As it penetrates

The solid warmth

Turning sleeping silence

Into living noise

I think I’m a superhero because a few years ago I realized a very special gift of mine, a super power you could call it. Turns out, I can over-power static hair with the mere strength (more like sweat) of my hands. I concentrate on them and take the sibling’s, stranger’s or confused friend’s hair inbetween my palms and pull down. Suddenly, as I remove them, the static is gone and all is smooth, shiny and well!

Frosted tips

Powdered with

cherry blossom pink

Stand frozen

As the sun rises

For the last time

This year

Time stops

To rewind,

To think

The trees adding

a new ring

As the wind breathes

In the last hours

and whispers

Happy New Year

You never start where you intend too. You never end up where you first thought. The paint just kind of sits there. Having a one-sided stand-off. Staring you blankly in the face as your hand quivers and falls. It’s all completely horrible. You where foolish to even have started. Looking away, you angrily sigh. Your grip on the brush loosens. You stop. Your eye searches for a culprit. The stupid palette just mocks you. All the colors are off. It looks a little bit like something you would have drawn and proudly given to your mom to hang on the fridge in kindergarten. Repulsing. You are supposed to know what colors don’t and do go together well by now. But you don’t. Clearly. Wiping your miscolored hands on your stained t-shirt, (That you accidently put on inside-out in a fury of inspiration at the start of this doomed mess) you move your legs and walk. You walk until you almost hit the opposite wall. Hopelessly, you spin around to face your oponent, wondering who’ll take the first shot. Nothing happens. The sad piece of “art” just grins back slobbily. You’ve disgraced all creators who came before you. You squint. Tilt your head. Shake out the cramp from your hand and tricep. Getting up from the side of the couch which you braced yourself on, you aim for the cold, barely touched cup of green tea you made before your emotional world-war 3 loomed up. It tastes like old piss. You squint some more. Readjust your glasses and take another sip. It wasn’t any better this time. Staring out the window, you sit. You look at the mug. There’s an ant on the rim of the cup. It runs about as if its looking for its will to live. Pouring the tea out, cracking your back, you look over your shoulder and see your loss. For some odd reason, it doesn’t look as bad you thought. It’s not great, but you don’t feel ill by the mere presence of it anymore. You become a little lighter. Something sparks. With new authority, you pick up your weapon of choice. Readjusting your vision, you see that there are things to be done. Darker lines here, a blue tint there, a reshaping of light on its arch. You take a breath. Then release. It may not be what you intended, or even where you hoped you’d end up, but this time it may even be better. Better than the first time, the first impulse came up.