I´ve been going through old poems
I´ve written aeons ago, in a different
life, in a different time, different me.
Trembling under my feather coat
the icy starlight chills my body
colors my skin dark, blue and black.
Dried ink lines on my paper heart
Words. But those are not mine!
Not my terms I keep on my mind,
not only my shrivelled dreams
casting shadows under my eyes.
How could I´ve fled? Run away?
Not mine to protect, nor to nurture.
How did those principles gotten to me?
Whose pen scratched them into my skin?