Vibrant yellow tips the blue
Fragments of air get trapped
Under  movements of Fall
The birds are escaping and you follow thus call.

The hills and morning dew glisten
The path's marked clear
Then a pair of boots comes
And kills what you raptly found to listen.

When  morning marches end
And you're left with sunshine bathing in the train
And you listen to the beatings of the wind
You remember the gifts given from the Fall's golden hand.

Later, leaving footsteps in the snow
You remember the birds call
And you look at your heavy bones,
Sensing the coldness and its hands so dull.

"I can't fly, can I?"
You ask.
The clock strikes midnight, overpowering the call.
The answer's given - "Why bother at all?"

Dear mother,
things here are big and boiling.
Like fat Roman candles, that carry the scent of luscious grapes, my insides spill over the grass and air, o so brittle and cold.

Constant images and dreams, that are real and as constant repeatings of the past, cover my holes so I become a whole of one bizarre happening, a mass for everything everybody ever saw.
I become the star,
I become the shining,
I become the dark
And I see and hear and feel I am near to something more far away, but more sacred than the road that appears in your stare.

I feel the fattening of my skin, the growth of my hair and nails with which I pick the golden strings of ultimate
brightness,
intensity,
electricity.
I don't want to meet your eyes.
I don't want to meet your eyes.
They're so watery I'm afraid I'll spill and lose them somewhere in your night.

I will be.
I am is far behind.
And I was, but never truly.
Dear Mother, I saw God.
Things here are big and burning.
Mother, I dreamt of God.
He was wearing a mask.
A face of some kind.
It looked as if it truly once was mine.

I keep imagining obscure
little ***** tickling
your eyes

the air is dancing
wildly as your trust is dressing
in a dark place

my mother won't look
and all I need is a stare
her hands glow

disapproval is too great
to only be feared of
love, don't you know

I fear of the side I'm on
to a shaky trace,
follow milky orders

it concerns the prince
when the room
is in lack of mirrors

it concerns the sleepers
when outside gets quiet
and thinner are edges

on which I so love to
sit alone
don't you know

love, come and carry
my heart
as your own.