my body isn’t my body anymore.
there’s nothing to do now but wait
for things to fall down from the sky and directly into place,
blood to pump in the veins,
the mind and the soul to get into the same position,
like printing plates,
there’s nothing to do to it other than to put it in the sun to dry out,
let it get old, chipped and eventually die,
leave it out for other living things to make use of it,
set it on the beach and watch the sea take it away,
let the sun scorch it like a hard day of work,
let fish and jellyfish eat its skin and meat,
let it be an offering to the world.
i want to put it to good use,
nourish it so it might grow out of its shell,
give my mind to it so it might eat it for the protein
and squeeze the soul into juice for it to drink.
my body has the same address as me.
and it walks a lot, i’ve seen it, and it never seems lost,
and yet all i’ve seen it do is
pass through walls and furniture, though always keeping a
Octav Codrea is an illustrator and amateur poetry author from Bucharest, Romania.
Take a look at ‘online body language‘, also by Octav.