If we were away on an island and
Each Today was the same as its Morrow,
Then all the world, with its Time’s flowing sands
Holding still, would never bring me sorrow.

With your hand in my hand, my heart in yours;
Alltime would pass in the space of a dream.
And all of those countless beautiful hours,
As swift as a butterfly’s flight would seem.

But not to your soul, with autumnal wings,
whose wanderlust grows and rockets above
To travel beyond the truth of all things.
No lover can dare encage you with love.

Thus I watch you soar like a wand’ring star,
Evermore free; you’re the sky in my heart.

If I were to cut open my chest
And eat my heart
It would taste bitter and sour
And distinctly fermented
With the flavour of age.

I think it would taste delicious.

Like grapes or milk
Meant for wine or cheese.

And looking at the flies on the wastebin,
I wonder,
Is that my destiny?
After all, some lives taste better when withered.

words:
crystallized fragments
containing reality
(and unreality as well)
driven by a Logic unable
to prove its own existence.

worlds:
you exist in one;
"the Universe"
which is
everything that [n]ever was[n't]:
the moon, the sea,
space, eternity
you and me,
this poem

and the Universe is also a word
which is contained in this poem
and thus in your mind
a word contains the world
in which lives the person reading this poem
that holds
the wor(l)d

these days, i live on the
spaces
between the  lines
of whatever story i thought my life
would turn out to be,

wide awake in a faceless house
waiting
while an everbeating heart of rain
spatters on the weathervane
(vain)
spinning lacklusterly,
lackadaisically nowhere
under a grey sky,
unaware

of the slumbering sun above,
or the custom cares of anyone
who has ever been in love...

[droplets on the roof]

though
sometimes,

through a mirrored screen
in the world between
waking and dream,
i get this fluttering feeling
(a certain fleeting)

of knowing

that somewhere between these walls--
(perhaps)
over ceilings,
under floors,
behind cupboards
or closet(d) doors,

waits a weaving

window

looking over the garden
back to my storylife
impatient
for my arrival
(my longsought revival),

and i'm just too
deranged
by the rain
to hear it
chiming my name.