I saw the whites of your eyes and the scene passed through me.

These moments.

Everyone knows the ones, a face, a date, a recurrence in pathways or acquaintance.
So unlikely, yet as already happened, or should be as it is, exactly.

Perceptual confusion in a split of a second, time knows of the instance and bares the skill in strength, to lend to bare this gift of consciousness.

Like lines of life being drawn at different frequencies, running right through you, positing experience from another dimension or perhaps another version, sad or kind, past or
present, this life or other, registered relativity at least, leaving a scar in one’s mind, in passing.

Why do I know you in such a way, and how can I desire you in such a fashion, as if to be rekindled yet we’ve never met, I feel like I’ve longed for you.

Conscious Time aligns this cosmic social gift, your galaxy shines in your iris, discovered not born,
I love your universe.

This bond beyond personal, love of a thing, not pairing or courting but the pursuit within, speak back and connect or pain will proceed, for the gift that you feel wants the life you could lead.

Yellow the solar glow, whole over oceanic horizon as I perch on the front a beautiful Menton evening.
Bleached in multicolour.
Metronomic meditation given by the breaking surf, I want to reach up to the sky, arms wide and chest to the universe, in case this moment lets the value of it all in, there and then.
Sea breath let no haze of thought to surface in this Mediterranean awakened dream.
Ochre the Riviera sun in its’s half cap state, lending twinkle to the shore from tide and wake, distracted behind by chime of evening bustle I look back at a pastel town, their she receives what was caught in preparation for open cuisine, beautiful people in mellow labour.
One more glance and I miss it, now just the line of French horizon, from shimmer to gold upon deep blue, amber soaked I stand and give thanks for the day.

Flatlands in my mind time again, driving less a desire for radio interruption, haunted at the time and in thought, safe now but as if once fought.
Dreadful tales but only as once told, easy to imagine the Spitfire’s drone, withered men of few, on their last march, dry mouth and boots, eyes up on the distance, searching for any horizon upon the wide open coastal skies.

Yellow the solar glow, whole over oceanic horizon as I perch a front a beautiful Menton evening.

Bleached in multicolour.

Could anyone be drawn from such engulfing metronomic meditation given by the breaking surf.

I want to reach up to the sky, arms wide and chest to the universe if it would let it all in there and then.

Sea breath let no haze of thought to surface in this Mediterranean awakened dream.

Ochre the Riviera sun in its’s half cap state, lending twinkle to the shore from tide and wake, distracted behind by chime of evening bustle looking back at preparation for open cuisine, beautiful people in mellow labour.

One more glance and I miss it, now just the line of French horizon, from shimmer to gold and deep blue, amber soaked I stand and give thanks for the day.

Cold is felt, but are you shivering.
Heat bares down, and are you panting?
The winds of change flare and pass
In time no fare is due from past
Are you waiting.
Feel the pain, without strength, forlorn
Or sit all the same, no blood, no toil
It’s yours, there, glory or shame,
This time, life’s stake, victory no blame.

A lot can happen in a number of youthful years. One blur, a lifetime, a mesmerising experience and an erasing virtue.
Memory clear and an identity un so. Tales of a cross road. We can draw, without abuse, and at worse we know, so painful and yet of use.

Here, yes yours to use.
Keep begin, even if once begun, again and many times.
As much as it takes, fight or don’t, find, strive, make do if you wish, survive, but don’t ask, not any more. You’re answered, always have been.
Blatant in the past with no malice meant, while being written not read.
That’s right there’s no one way, right and wrong not or.
It’s yours to use, choose or seek.

That remembered is not of present, true the fact.
Self in name, but person no more, a note is played and heard intact.
Resonation fades through fault or purpose, and plucked again a new key to nurture, sound or noise, felt or heard, possibility given but no outcome occurred, perhaps another.
Pick and focus on what comes to mind, and what was listened for can be pure to find, for sequence in health the song will give, a symphony of life in truth herewith.

That stare so seen and felt, unfocused eyes upon a green belt or perhaps a dancing flame, first light of day, a cloud up high or a creature unto aim.
It speaks to the very soul, this line is known, no emotion of note from birth it’s owned as entangled carnation, its internal role, to hold fast in dorm, pure as bone.
Yet strongly serve and let it be heard, the notion of essence, traversed when alert, you are back, a spec, society bound, freely reminded, you are the world, lost and found.