the way you are
yourself

helplessly
definitely

self.made.fulness

although.­fulness.less

whatever.ish

a ghostly fog
wraps the night

- maybe spilled,
a full moon,
for the greyish light.

sometimes,
i wake up
and,
in the dark,
my body knows
- oh so exactly -
the place of
a once upon a time
home.

a hall way,
the switch,
each corner,
the places to everything.

umbilical chord
to a dead time.

The fall of the night.

A walk,
shades of fog,
scents of burning woods.

Winter is coming,
yes.

In my heart,
not a single line.

My singularity,
why have you deserted it?

Brushes of red goldness
devoured by a sky of dark.

my whole life
i lived here:

this shallow wind,
folding,
unfolding
wavy dunes,

an elusive
bloom
of sandy
swirls.

nights'dark
always drowns
in the silver
of glowing moons.

the warmth of days?

i do keep
saving it,

in bottles,

lost to
no longer
known address,

with its fireflies inside.

windless,
the night
roars,
slithering
in the dark,

brush strokes
of light
ripping
the world -


like an anguish
wipping your heart,
a tremor in your hands
unveiling a fear
unnamed.

planted
some seeds
- sunflowers.

watch them now
in the morning:
bright yellow,
blue skies.

don't know why
i turn to darkness.

found a word,
down the road:

dandelion.

and, in a snowy way,
the  autumnal spring

- delusionnally -

took the girl
in a sway,
blowing away

her last match,
a blur of orange
in the smoking grey.