Online Verhalen

Sonnet

Each stain turns into stanza
as drops of ink, so vast and blue
fall and splash on virgin canvas
out of the pen I’ve never used.

And through this stream of drips I find me bathing
in creeks laid out in times before me
I grasp at fish too big for taking
in search for that I cannot yet see.

By cutting wood in prozaïc mangroves
I see myself, a new born baby
crying out a smuthered sound.

For on the canonic canoe of endless words
I am peddling, peddling silently,
trying only not to drown.