Even Death Is Better

Poem

The clock is ticking,
the room is dark,
no one’s breathing,

I want to hide,
I want to cry,
but she holds me tight.

Her image is a stone,
her smell is poison:
sweet and lethal.
She knows no season,
all she has is fatal.

No escape. No hope.
Nothing but her smile,
so evil, cold as ice.

Help me, friend,
save me from the frost,
dead is just a mirror,
oh, I’m lost, I’m lost…

more by GEORGI DIMITROV-KARLOVSKI 

photograph by Stefan Konze

Image Curve’s Manifesto