Poetry

You must be precise. 
I am in search of me. 
 
No clue, yet to find the hand, 
which was baked in the klin─ 
and that did not feel the pain. 
 
It was all over. No need to nurse 
anybody. The wounds, the multiple 
bullet marks. Did you see it coming? 
The fusillade, which lit up the room? 
 
You become the question to find the 
answer. Come out of the body. 
There was no spring in sight. 
It was a long winter of sealed lips 
 
You must be color-blind. 
The roses look black. The 
avalanche was red!