[marko river]

Your throat is endless spring of water.
Words like cold mountain stream,
paralyzing and warmth killing,
turning safe ground into a vague dream.

Sometimes it is a river so wide,
still surface, depths of despair.
Covering everything, every shelter.
I'm right in the middle, fighting for air.

I can't possibly drink all that
nor keep swimming without a rest.
I can walk on bottom, that's my best,
carrying your ocean on my chest.
To stay on surface, I need a lifebelt.

Your throat is ever-erupting volcano.
Deepest red lava it spreads around,
burning the path we followed.
Leaves only the ashes on the ground.
Every time the entire island is swallowed.

Looking all that fire, I just want to dive.
Room is collapsing and there's no door.
I can't be that strong and lasting and all
to lift and carry the entire south pole
to put down the fire, just to survive
a few seconds more.

I need my point of view.
Why won't you let me speak too?
I don't need a ocean of words like you.
I can settle down with just two.
Shut up...