Every yearning spins a thread.
These are the ones still unraveling.
„...what lies ahead…“
My mind—a deceiver. My body—its slave.
Hurt me like I do
Scavengers, all of them—ready to tear into their own kind the moment weakness shows.
Wolves feast, lambs bleed
Where meadow is,
a lambkin soundly sleeps,
a wolf creeps—pad, pad
grass – a soft bed
a deadly trap.