arbeit macht frei

im writing a book see
no im not
the truth is im
rearranging past words
while making future promises

she drew blood
i didnt think she could
so i wrote on old poetry
scrawling ‘always’
such a strong word
a future promise

theres a tradition
for my birthday we burn
memories of the past year
so for february ill
burn half the memories out
save the rest for august

i lit a match
ate the flame
burnt my lips
on the poem
drew in coal
‘new’

red and black on white
blood and snow at midnight
‘always new’

time for new poems
for my own words
no more promises