"...AS TREES WALKING . . ."

the goldfish ponders
the world the other side of the glass
retires to its castle

it watches the coming
& goings of us
unable to explain our existence

"...I see men as trees walking. . ."
the vicar reads
his thought visible to the fishes

"...but what does it mean?"
one fish asks the other
"...and what are - trees?"

the vicar dies
in his sleep
words still floating about in his head

the fish unable to explain
his stillness....loudly
the clock talks in tick tocks

the God hand
that feeds them...does not
come

hungry for answers
they cease
to believe

Time
darkens
whitens

& again
darkens
whitens

it all goes belly up
the dead vicar & his dead fish
frightening the home help

only the plastic Christ
nailed to the wall
hears her scream

who knows if we trully own our words
or they own us
too many sunsets and dawns are happening in the same time
and the departed are tormenting us with the song of their flesh
I found a rhyme in you
absence rhymes with presence
somewhere in the hands of time

my cells have their own theories and fruits of dying
even porcelain dreams
when I am with you I enter the tunnel of vision
I can see better what happens with fused from confused
me and him trapped in the asylum of gestures
somnabulists through our own skins
while they are busy scrolling
God forbid to hear the sadness of a time
that is getting darker and darker

I am in pain, though I cannot feel it.
I still stand tall, but not on my feet!

I have dreams, maybe they are false;
What I desire, let it be someone else.

I still haven’t found myself yet;
I run so fast, yet I’m always late!

You can see my eyes, they're full of tears
I never expected the pain I got from yours.

summer casts her spell
man cuts reeds for thatch
swallows under eaves.

Let there be light,
      there be    light
light,

         the flowers, snow, the colours,
fragrance,    the dawn,
moon  and the sun and stars,
            poetry, you -
                                 all light;

You are poetry: your
              dimpled smile is poetry;

But isn't poetry sound?

The sparkling of the thunder,
        crackling of fire,
              susurration of the river -

in the end, sound is light;
      the poetry of truth is light;

Birth of a star, volcanoes,
supernovae,
        all -
     sound, poetry, light:
                   you   are light;

nights revolve in imaginary loops
I am captive inside my lips, inside fingertips
so that I see everything half and half
waves, tears, apples, words
half for me, half for not me, but the other you
I have to keep my hands for myself cause
you have sunshine tattooed on your skin
words are this space where I can breathe
when your hands get concentric