From the tongue of mirrors,
toward the geometry of vines.
The fierce ferment of distant years,
our perpetual paths.

We wither in the whirlwind of days,
virtuous man – ogre man,
no one knows.

We look far ahead, positioning ourselves as we will one day be: unreachable.

Your distant being climbs the great stone shoulders to dance a strange alphabet.

A dream of an arrow slicing through the air, wine dripping from trees into the space between your legs, and we write upon the water the latitude of a new idea and the way a friend’s memory recalls a resinous age.

we speak of love as we once loved: blue windows
of delicate lace, the sound of children playing at the foot of a
sinless bed.

I tell you, I taste a time that whispers it is near… and you kiss me.

Those days have passed.

And no one remembers us anymore.
Slow steps through the mud,
Bare heads bowed beneath the snow,
Silence bitten into the crust of bread.

The death with which they poisoned us has been forgotten,
No one remembers anymore.
And even if I sang every name,
Even if I unearthed from the ashes
Or pulled from the darkness every frozen face,
Every shattered youth,
Every buried love,
Even if I did all that,
No one would remember us.

(I am a cry against the indifference of time, while I am here I am memory.)

Rose. The most perfect rose
Stained the snow
Sinking into the grave
I never knew its name
And she never knew
Of my existence
God made her perfect
But that rose. So perfect. Stained the snow where we all walk.

Madness  
has all the hours  
Whether it's insatiable hunger or the incision of ***
The unique path from silence to the abyss and back again
Life before life to tarnish the image of a house of a voice of an absent hand. Madness is a garden.

My mistake was so simple
and death so dramatic
thus silence,
that beast,
annihilated through emptiness
everything that was within me.

The house with the swing was gray. It had once been yellow, but no one remembers that anymore. The swing remains the same, and the tree that holds it has stretched its roots through the garden for at least five generations.
Today, the house was ripped from the earth. It screamed. The tree, mute from birth, shook its dry leaves in protest.