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Their eyes
Will always
Look down
On you
Their hearts
Will never

So warm
Your heart
In solitude
A hearth
Of poetic  
Traveler Tim
30 Syllables

Hang in there!
The humans didn't stop there
though the words did
circa 2520 AD.

They harmonized love
into a seamless pattern
of expressions.

Once they realised
words were only confining them
they wove patterns of smile
and wove them into faces
(lips were almost discarded)
sewing as many expressions
of joy, sorrow, happiness
and not the least
despair and disappointment
patterns for which were hard to make
as men had all along learned to hide
the brokenness of unattainment.

Freedom from the shackles of words
became the most manifest expression
on their faces.

One pattern was never woven.

Men had since made redundant
the emotion of hatred.
 Jun 7
Lyra Scott
I am afraid of living, she said.
I am afraid it will hurt me.

Good, he said.
It will.
The world is frightening.
You should be afraid, he said.
The world will hurt you, and it will be worth it.

I'm afraid I will deserve it, she said.
And I'm afraid, she said, that I won't.

Nonsense, he said.

The world will hurt you.
People will hurt you, he said.
And when they do it,
They will do it because they will.

Is that all? she said.

No, he said.
That is everything.

The world will hurt you.
And the world will love you, he said.
People will love you, he said.
And when they do it,
They will do it because they will.

You have not earned this.
You have not deserved this.
This is living, he said.

How do I stop it? she said.

You don't, he said

You live afraid.
And you live desperate.
And you live happy.
And you live.

I am afraid of that, she said.

I know, he said
You should be.
 Jun 7
guy scutellaro

always in a room without windows
a straw up his nose
a bottle of Jack Daniels
on the moveable food tray.

Harry, he

lived his life like a hurricane
violent and fierce yet
in the havac he caused

the lone wolf,
never a destination
all he owned was time



the neon sky, dark,

afire with visions
of  the wounded women
partially wrapped in night, hears

the song the sirens sweetly sing

so he chose to fly


above the high wire trapeze,
grasping for tranquility with a straw
and with ease
he follows the shadows
into rooms without windows

a solitary wanderer in the heartland

the man who chose to fly

strange fish, my friend,


I salute you.
 Jun 6
Anais Vionet
People came and went all night, welcomed by the warm evening, the 12-piece jazz band, rich restaurant aromas and the boundless night sky. I hear their enthusiasm as they’re escorted to their tables. These Geneva people seem more Germanic and reserved than the French, although they’ve stolen our language. Maybe they license French or subscribe to it, like Spotify.

Peter (my bf) and I danced, unburdened by tomorrows, on a terrace of frozen-ice like, pale-blue tiles. The spilled star-field glittered like fireworks on a dark canvas of a new-moon, black sky.

The distant, snow-covered Alps seemed to reach for the glistening cosmos, like spilled water rushing across a floor or children grasping at toys. Compared to this celestial gallery, the Geneva skyline looked as sad as an old stage prop.

The air was scented with blooming jasmine, baking bread and coffees. A breeze, in turns warm and cool, wrapped around us, sharing the dance by pressing my dress to me one moment and throwing it away the next.

The dress I picked it up in Paris earlier in the week - a svelte, Chiuri Dior, ‘New Look Silhouette’ in Prussian blue Chiffon and cobalt crepe - felt as lightweight, breathable and cool as workout-mesh.

Peter’s a good dancer. He’s firm yet gentle, guiding me effortlessly, in a lazy, jazz way, from the waist. When we’re in the flow, our choreography’s guided more by the unseen music than a set dance.

Our evening - I think it’s fair to say we owned it - turned into an unhurried night, before easing, unnoticed, into morning - as summer evenings tend to do.

Our words, in hushed tones, were washed away on the breeze and the music, lost to anyone but ourselves. Time never seemed more of an abstract and irrelevant construct - and if there was a world beyond those moments - it went unnoticed.
Songs for this:
Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan
Lose My Breath (Feat. Charlie Puth) by Stay Kids, Charlie Puth
Stumblin’ In by CRYIL
**** to someone by Clairo
Our cast…
Peter (My bf), is a bearded, 27-year-old from the sage hills of Malibu, California. He’s 6’1, too thin, and his hair is an explosion of uncombed black. Until last week, when I tanned him up, his skin was pale from over exposure to fluorescent lighting. He earned his PhD in Applied Physics last year and now he works for CERN here in Geneva. He’s smart, quiet, awkward and he can be too serious. I’m unreasonably cRaZy about this guy.

Svelte: From the Merriam Webster ‘Word of the day’ list: something sleek, like a greyhound or racecar
like unsend letters
Putting it out there.
Sending them to the universe.
Like traveling stars from afar.
Hoping they reach their destination.
For the one to read and understand.

A star for you.
 Mar 14
There's something about the
one who stays alone,
separate from most
authentic connection

the Monk in the cave,
a gentle withdrawal
from the collective

to find and confront the one,
who was buried away
for so long,

the silent Monk sought
a higher truth,
and into himself
he went

As I watch the Sun bleed,
The oceans went through my eyes —
The deep ocean, diving in my soul
Driving and cleansing every dirt I envision.

I had no hold for tomorrow
Nor I had no idea what will come next.
And yet my hope is in the Sun’s rising again.
My hope isn’t hidden, it will soon be captured.

The image as shut my entity’s door
Becomes the image of a robe in white…
The reddish ribbons in deep wounds,
The spiky thorn in the Sun’s crown.

Tearing all in the mention of a Name —
A name higher than the stars in space,
Higher than the galaxies discovered,
Higher than the infinities no one could ever measure.
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