Het schouderophalen van de woordschudder

The old man would leave the light on all night Like a beacon guiding their ships to the shore It wouldn’t matter if he had closed his eyes, for his sight had parted along with his firstborn child Only at night he travelled, a thorough destination in his left pocket The right pocket was filled with stones Each stone representing a memory of his flawed past

The silence would tremble him like a violent breeze So he comforted himself with surrounding sounds Vowing himself and the wrecked humanity eternal hatred ‘Poor me another glass of wine’ he said to the bottle And i wonder: Is denying the same as lying?

Crawling up the stairway, knocking on the wrong door A smell of guilt woke me, and denied my tongue to speak The old man replied in a different language I witness your truth, as time passes by

Still I Am Not Mad