Creeper

Right into the dark hole of night

we move,

what a prospect –

whose claim?

No security,

no canary,

our future is a seam

of – not necessarily –

excrement.

Possibly

somebody downed a golden coin.

Okay –

you can trade that against something

comforting.

But beware!

Open fire might blow

your habitat.

Written by Jakob Dittmar.

Cover photo by Enjy Ashour.