“You can’t reach me babe,
I’m at the horizon,
All you’ll see now
is the drowning of the rising sun,
for it was no fun
when you shot me with the gun”.

Yeah, we were high
and my babe could almost fly,
But she didn’t know I would die,
That I was just another bleeding guy.

She made me bleed
to know if I was alive,
She just did a deed
that helped me no longer survive.

I lay down high, still high,
bid my last goodbye,
to the one who made me die.

Now I can fly
though I’m not high,
finally at the pearly gate
waiting to hear my fate,
A tap on my shoulder from behind
and I hear,
“I’m sorry I shot you”,
Without doubt nor wonder,
I replied,
“it’s ok babe, I still love you.”

tick-tock ticks
the sound of time
detached and pompous,
swaggers the rhyme
that looms every moment
for the mind, awake
and ceases to exist
for the mind that's baked

slow at times and at times fast
dexterous time
could also stand still
for days on end
like a deceitful ****
tick-tock ticks
the sound of time

that which all need
and some earn with greed
to think you have enough is a blunder
and control it, none shall ever
tick-tock ticks
the sound of time

the dark black fades away
as the morning sun paves the way
for shades of gradual bright
beyond my eyelids
that try and shield my dream
from shattering into nothingness
tick-tock ticks
the faint sound I hear
snooze button clicks
and of time, become a forgetful fear.

untethered
through the dark,
we tread
across that familiar park

on the path coarse
she rose
graceful and free
she moves
like a gentle breeze
on a mid-summer night
our elbows locked
she turns and dances
giving life to a shadow
in the streetlight, static
and yellow

a commune of silhouettes
beyond the lake
like wonted mores
try to reach us ashore,
spellbound by the water
the black reflection ripples
and moves into stillness

red tinted clouds
drift miles above us
granting glimpses
of an indigo night sky
dotted with distant stars
and an orange Mars

almost time now
she spots the International Space Station,
a white lucent shine,
rise up from the vagrant reds in the west
and draw a lucid arc
across the indigo canvas
a deft motion of a compass tip
subtle, taut
and at ease

the white glow dims
and then fades
as the night turns on itself
we rest
on that wooden bench
overlooking the lake
just being
watching

the midnight drama
unfold,
like a fountain spring forth,
a breath we hear

take shape
as the ducks play and laugh,
as repeated greets by a shy hedgehog
as the bats in acrobatic flight
and the long white fluffy thing
which to this day
remains mysterious
to 26 and 21

the ubiquitous black intense
is void no more
awake we are
and our souls, a choir
a breath cosmic,
flowing
untethered