You are like my
favourite advisory column
among all of my
favourite magazines.

Do you remember who you were,
The great songwriter, the passionate poet?
Intelligence rolls off you in waves,
Why do you hide it?

Do you remember who you were,
The kind classmate, the loving friend?
But you act so aloof and cold,
Why must you pretend?

In your pursuit for flings and,
In your pursuit for popularity,
You’ve left something behind,
And that happens to be me.

Because I see your hurt spirit,
One in need of saving.
That your hidden porcelain heart,
Is broken, and in need of mending.

You’re broken, beautiful, and in need of awakening.

Or…

Am I deluding myself?
Do you not want a saviour?
Perhaps the dark life you’ve got,
Is the one you desire.

*But I don’t want to believe you are lost to me.

Your eyes can implode supernovas,
summon waves at the bottom of the sea;
swallow the abyss in me.

Apparently blessings soon wither
Where your star shone

Reminisce
In the darkening sky
There's a Taj Mahal!
Undulating endless
Asimetry of
Love

Floating above
The placid
Waters

One
Glimpse ~
My wet hands
Kyoto protocol
Hair in a Thankfury
Violet Versace

And your smiling coasts
Me wrapped in a black coat
Lush lucrative dynamics
Zarathustrian imperative!

Covering your manly
Shoulders

Dig a grave in my
Hollow submarine
Diminishing distance

Was I, to call your firm hand's
Grip ~a lesser degree in Hiking,
Or a postponed poetic height
Thumbs entwined. . .

Spirited as a killer
Eagles mudra
You stare at
My profile

Well ~we stand
Opposing as a lovers
Of A grand Poetic

Name surpassing the time
Awaiting, courting, questioning
Via simile to the blood under
The Bask's barret

No, the ring I've put aside,
My hands are bare tonight!

Bewildered, I´ll stumble forth
within a bright new day to
complete your sermon.

You usually brake the cliche
Walking hand in hand
With Affar Authors
With Dead Spirits
With Alive Authors
Playing dead, unknown
Within the journalists eyes..

When they whisper

Wisdoms to your son's father

When they sturm und drang my sweetest
Sister

The softest spring is coming forth and
I know where to find you. In southern sighs.
Dreamy. Uncatchable.

Playing

Her eyes are almost dead,
Struggling to get out of bed.
As she begins to dress,
In the mirror she sees a mess.

There’s so much she can do,
But there’s also nothing to do.
Nothing at all gets done,
She clutches her head as it spun.