The fertile desert of the Poppy

Desert rarely welcomes the petal-wreaths of sky-colored poppies these days. All search for joy is fading away, lurking. They tie a bow around momentary joy, fun, laughter, if there is no apparent benefit from it. Silences cry out and deepen in the depths of silent hearts, which - like secret code languages ​​- it would be good to decipher permanently someday. The consciousness of bitterness increasingly poisons the inner soul-I. 

Years, helpless decades crumble in historical Times. Wandering dreams, cherished in the depths of the Soul, also multiply, which they still believed could be deciphered, repaired not only by the uncertain Present.

 As if existence itself should now march at a snail's pace, since it alone can know only that; The average person must always depend on others for a lifetime, like false vagrants, if he wants to survive. 

Behind tactful smiles lurks an interrogative, awkward silence, which has breathing stigma-wounds. Like in the sands of time in black and white photographs, we have become timeless, like a memory that is perhaps better forgotten. All collective feelings, which were repeatedly squeezed out by a thinking mind, seemed to have ceased. Because the thin amniotic fluid of life-scented naturalness - often - seems to become involuntary, if there is no sincere, trusting action behind it. 

The Present, which seems to be getting old, has long since been unable to whisper caressing, flattering compliments. Even so much love can become color-blind if we do not take enough care of it; the restless instinctive beating of cells does not necessarily have to believe in the laws of survival. If space and time close their gates, it would be good to still trust in the guidance of silver stars.