It starts with a page, blanker than my mind.

At least I hope so.

Otherwise I had nothing to say.

This poem is a drawing.

It was hung in a room.

The room seems empty.

The room has dark floor

and white walls.

One of the walls is tilted.

The drawing is titled.

It was hung on the wall which is tilted.

Attached only at the top,

the bottom part is dangling in the wind

that enters the room through the window.

Curtains

fluttering,

thrashing,

threatening.

It is stormy outside.

Flowers are blown into the room.

It is stormy inside.

Dust is blown into the titled.

It is stormy in the drawing.

Ink is blown onto your face.

The titled is a piece of wood.

On it are lines drawn in ink.

The lines are dancing seductively.

It’s a real shock for everyone involved here.

The drawing is aware of itself

and wants to draw you in.

For a second you feel manipulated –

as the beauty of those lines is so mysterious

that you are afraid

that it is playing on perverse desires.

The author of the poem sits in the corner

watching you regarding the titled.

It is still dangling.

The author calms you down,

says there is nothing perverse about your pleasure.

The drawing is vulnerable –

your gaze is stabilizing.

The author of the poem finds fatal attractions attractive.

The lines in the titled are jittering.

The lines in the poem are jittering.

You regard the author.

The author has no qualities, says a second author,

who sits in the other author corner.

You look into the remaining two corners,

There are two women.

Both of which are also authors

Each of them is cornered.

Neither of them has a name.

The first of the two

is free

because words are bricks that needn’t make walls

The second of the two

is bound

because words make riddles without answers.

The first of the two is powerful.

The second of the two is spiritual.

Both of their minds are fleeting.

And only love can break your heart.

My inner truth is on the titled.

My outer truth is in the poem.

Exit all authors,

for you want privacy.

You haven’t heard your own thoughts since you entered the room.

You focus on the titled.

You sit down on the bench –

it is placed in the otherwise empty room.

I sit down next to you

very very closely.

I am breathing on your neck.

It is still quite windy.

The wind is blowing.

The lines are jittering.

The wall is tilted.

The authors are outside.

I am breathing on your neck.

You focus on the drawing.

and bang it is gone.