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It was a perfect poetic night. The poet was young but contained an old soul. A dipping of moonlight fell, a semi circle beam of light glancing down at the poet and his tired Hands. He had wrote for hours, sinking into the sand observing day to night in a non linear fashion. He had seen things, wrote them and not analysed. A poet does that sometimes, removes all thought just to find the simplicity of a seashell stuck, imprinted into the wet sand, curled up and swirled in shapes and patterns, only a focused eye can see. Or the simplicity of this moon, laying in front of his eyes, soft white, yellow, silver glow of magnetic light, ******* the earth with exposure to what’s above. A poets mind is a mind that only stay meditative for a while until it wanders far into the bottom of the sea, into the depths and shadows and takes a rest amongst the peachy coral and the fish. He needs this time to recharge, for a poet is not a machine, a poet is a meditative instrument pulsing at the externa;. He is a observer of the happenings, a mere emotion, a sweet melody. He finds time to write in good spaces, open spaces where the air is full and quiet spaces where the candle flickers. All that being said a poet is a job that is hard, it requires effort, skill, craft and inspiration.
I stand at
the last divided capital in the world and it confuses me how the land I am from is still being owned by greed and discrimination
we sit at the cusp of the border and an elderly man sells us ice cream
I sit in your lap on the metal chairs,
admiring the history that lived before me
this man was watching knowing his life was in an echo of a torn country

complacency

he moved boxes around, cluttered in old ornaments and memory
the other side of us there were  children in a violin lesson
so unaware
of the wall
their parents wait for them in small conversations
an officer in blue parols with eyes that are hungry and glowing like a fox in the strangeness of night, preying,  feral, searching.
we went for coffee, i don't even like coffee but i liked his grip around my waist and the ten days he is here for like a cigarette that burns out and he re lights again for comfort
we went for a walk, every leaf damp and ***** from the walkers and the sun poked holes through the tree tops. we talked about education choices, then circulated our breathing
Crisp
cool
delicate lungs
we went to sleep, on an old sofa bed,
piling duvets up on top of each other to sink into
i stay up too late and then i'm always the first to sleep
i wonder if he falls because i do..
Every time we are apart

I have to learn how to be alone again

Repairing my independence
he was a mirror
for all the inner work
i did
I am your 3am star that you see from your window sill

In your daylight slumber,

I am what showers you in curiosity

And wonder

Filled of days with you

So beautifully mastered

I am yours
The houses here are like miniature towns,
their walls are crumbled and ruined
and our eyes float up to the signs
above the car windscreen,
he said i make him see everything
differently, its like having a new set of eyes
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