Wel come to, Oblivion
…
Wel come to O, blivion
The land, where   an gels sin
…


Even, the de   vil, does  not   know
Where, the  angels go

He,  wonders why
God takes, their lives

Why do,  the angels die?
…


How   do they fall?
Do   they feel pain?
******,   by God's grace
Dragged  by  **  ly  chains


To, Oblivion
Where they will be, for   go   tten

Even, the de vil, would know  it's,   cruel
But God likes  to   rule
Sim ple ma chines
…


Their dreams
And all their,  fears
Oblivi on tears

Their dreams
All their, fee ee ee ee eel ings
Oblivi  on fears


Drea ea ming
Fee eeling
Think    ing
**    o    ping


That's  not  God's  plan
Th­ey face God's wrath
Fa ding   a way
From all me mo   ry

Obli   vion
The an   gels' pri    son

Puppets in
Hea ea ea ea ven
Freedom chained in
Obli i i vi on

Where the    a an gels
Fa a ade away
In O  bli     vi      on

…


Wel come    to,    Oblivion
You won't re   member them
…
O bli vi on        tears

Once upon a time
In a place I did not know
There was a fire burning in the snow

I know

I know, I know
It's hard to believe
I was lost, never blind
I saw it with my own eyes


A falling tear crashed to the ground
Crystalized, it turned to ice
Glacial heart ignite
Burn in the pain of July

I gazed upon a field of
Frost flowers


Once upon a time
In a place I did not know
There was a fire burning in the snow

I know, I know
It's hard to believe
I was lost, never blind
I saw it with my own eyes


I saw that glacial heart ignite
Frost flowers wouldn't melt or vaporize
Not in these blazing flames of July

No, I don't
Know why


Would they be healed by an abyssal kiss?
Cured when fractal petals burn to ashes?
Or would these flames drive a glacial heart

To shatter these
Frost flowers


Once upon a time
In a place I did not know
There was a fire burning in the snow

I know, I know,
It's hard to believe
But I was lost, never blind
I saw it with my own eyes


And I would wager that
If I were to return
To that place I don't remember

I'm sure I would see
A fire melting
In the middle of
December

November is the lover who leaves--
December is the long nights, after.

Trust is the toddler on the tracks--
Experience is hanging from the rafter.

Hope is a prayer whispered in the dark--
Truth is the unexpected laughter.

Is it wrong of you to wish her gone to Hell?
Maybe when you get there you can ask her.

I contemplate these crossings illuminated by clouds
between a shape of thought and its veils
we didn't invent a screen-reality
it was already there, in the scriptorium of mind
I contemplate this geography known only by fingertips
unworded broken lines in tense bodies
I wonder about the lineage of tears, of hopes
how we grow old in this ardour, in the burning of bridges
I nod, I frown at the glaze of time
I move to the center of seeing like a novice
I gaze at the poliphony of being
at our Janus faced trade with flames
I say to myself it's good to decenter the "I" in this poem
however,  there is no purity of words
height after height and depth after depth
we betray a simple evidence: we belong to the same air
will we regret our rush towards the malaise of thought,
will we be rowing over the theft of light?
an invisible will is building up, an antifragile declamation,
the soul's defamation

Today is an old day,
leaking
the passed night's rain,

almost with its dawn already
yesterday,
faded replicant of yet another supplicant.

I'd throw it away, used-up as
a broken comb, a flared match fired once to
light something gone,

except
the birds
greet it with such celebration,

singing their
soft explosions
above the autumn seeds.

September 2025

the sunrise claimed my mind
' keep your heart hidden'

a secret tucked into your pocket
when time will be fulfilled
then you may wear it in the open.

we live behind palace walls

“I’m in love,”  I said, sighing into the fall-like, Paris afternoon, “I have to admit it.”

My 85 year old uncle Remy, gently stirring a pitcher of American martini he was conjuring, said, “You should marry an insignificant lawyer - if you’re going to have a cross-class love affair.”
Uncle Remy was a lawyer, of sorts, once.

“I think you’re leading the witness,” I said, looking down at my shoes.
“I’m in love with my Havaianas,” I clarified - my new, white, square-toed flip-flops.
“Besides, no one thinks in terms of class any more - and Peter and I are NOT an asymmetrical match or relationship or whatever.”

But it got me thinking. Half, or more, of what Uncle Remy says is politically incorrect. And I don’t judge him harshly..

I wrote, last week, about a guy who
(gasp) told me he found me attractive
like it was some crisis.

Hadn’t I schemed to get with Peter? (my bf).
And hadn’t he admitted that he’d schemed to get with me?

Was I ready to diagnose this guy as a walking red flag
- for a gentle admission of interest?
Because he's a big, intimidating guy?

What are the small, social rituals
we’re allowed to use - to signal desire?
Sure, buying someone a drink at a bar
- but what else? It’s a Catch-22.

Must every comment face the court of
public opinion, verbal consent protocols,
uni regulations and the behavior authorities?
Should we ban serendipity and spontaneity too?

Monday morning came and I didn’t ask to change seats
I moved my pencil back - a little.
He actually could use a bit more room than me.

I smiled a little, asked him about his weekend,
there’s no use in being unfriendly.
His name is Jacques (Jack).
.
.
Songs for this:
So Sorry by Lola Young [E]
The Hardest Part by Olivia Dean