Words:
whispering sybils
of concealed worlds.
In betweens and beyonds,
somewheres and nowheres,
truths for making believe.

Words.

Carmine nostalgia of the unexperienced.
Utopia upon a time.
Windmill wings to grow a heart,
flavours and scents of new seen worlds,
tangible places pulsating in snow globes,
cosmogony of what is not.

Words:
scribbling, engraving a forever world.

In wich realm would such heaviness stop?

I chose painkillers to forget it all
- and it did not calm the heart ache.

I came down the stairs, left it all behind
- and did not find me lighter.

I merged with the landscape
- and stillness and cosmogonic beauty
did not lift the weight.

I reached out, shared my bread and my water,
I deleted me and brought back together I and you

- and there, amongst mankind, learning how
to become a giver, my heart found no chains.

I accept to stand
unseen
on the sidewalk,
on the river bank.

Random shadow for
playful drawings in the sand,
silent stir to birth ethereal fulness,
playground
to be left behind.

Hollowed.
Vacant.
A window-sill
for passing songs.
A borrowed
beating heart.

I accept to stand,
in scattered craving
for the wind
beyond.

[05.09.13]

They say
rêverie
made
the human heart.

I say
we first unfolded
our heart
gazing at trees.

Hypnotically
we watch the dancing leaves,
waving green,
flamboyant canvas,
single brown hanging on.

Delusionally,
we learn the longing,
we portrait our storms,
we are taught transitoryness.

Is this not
why, as a child,
we handed leaves
- the most special ones -
to eternity,
in between the pages
of our favourite books?

Approaching
the bridge deck.

In the back of my neck,
that feeling:
to be bursting out
of a howling whirling womb

and to come to life
for the first time.

A sudden silence
cloaks klaxons and brakes.
In the metallic height
wire-dancers
hang together
- ghosts
weaving a iron web.

I forget them.
The water below
rocks
a craddlesong

and the riverbank
again is the wild freshness
of green and blue,
frontier undisclosed.

The tunnel lies ahead
to bury my sight

and it sips me
back into the
immured swirl,
colourful masquerade
of lit agony.

All the déjà-vus

Cut copy paste repeat

Packing time every time
in a time of endings

Always passing by,
bypassing

Senseless

Useless

My will is thirsty
and no fountain
is to be reached

Will you see me off, darling?

For me, pretend
a minding fairwell,

pack me a smile

for me to take
in my journey

I wish words
could carry me in
and someone
could sense
the swirl
in the afternoon breeze
and gently
pick me
in a butterfly net
and map my colors
and have my contour
as a sextant for life.