Friend’s eyes, brine-drenched,
effervescent in the sun, abyssal blue, pearls.
And the glance of a strong,
foam-laced wave,
beholding passing observers
in timidity.
Oh, fury, oh fury—
grand savage, wind-lashed waters,
let his arms go to the gulf, all selfless,
gave himself to the shore,
obliquely turned, went missing.
To the Leviathan’s corpse he turned,
never came back.
Long gone, and mourned—
seafarer’s sorrow.

Never in history,
the trajectory of mysterious occurrences
could be guessed or read linearly.
For even rain falls when
it feels it should arrive.
The alchemy of empathy is intelligent,
and so far, voluptuously intuitive—
selfless, yet in possession of great temper.

The eternal mother of ‘coup de grâce’
sweeps tears from our eyes,
once again meeting us on the return
of having faith in ourselves,
when we could fall,
if life felt, to the extreme, forlorn.

The owl of Minerva only flies at dusk,
and the stellar seed of the philosophical zoo,
on its final flight, is destined to **** history.

Meanwhile, in our nocturnal richness,
it’s the galloping through our phantasmagoria that we fear the most;
for the impossibility of motion in a dream stands as a gate to unreachable power.
So, we accept a little death, it seems,
as a gift of armor,
to start the journey of breaking through.

Alternative ways do exist,
but each leads to a singular outcome:
walk through the mirror fearlessly,
and in each death find eternity.

Life of having two hearts
One that knew the love,
knew the eyes of doom,
knew the feeling of an upcoming tempest.
At what time to arrive at the amorous place,
before lifting one’s gaze,
after the plume of saline, in amalgamation with citric fragrances—
overpowering, and of rich darkness—
went immortal from the lawn fields,
into the glass world,
and fell there, from the great heights—******.

And another heart—substitute in armor—
longed for no specific lore,
just remembered nothing,
and, hitherto,
known for no desire
to love.

Redemption serves a tricky role,
for Orpheus knew where all the mythos goes.
As warm water fuels the tempest,
each courteous action to foreign eyes is vice.
Heavenly canvas embroidered,
by the modest hand of noble kindness—
the one that falls the fastest,
to touch the soil in the inferno.

Fastened: requiem into the fluid motion,
and on this journey
picking from forgotten melodies:
emotions.
Each of which is the uprising wind
that most coarse, nonchalant of the dooms.
Yet if it’s let inside with open arms and loved,
opens as the oyster shell,
unraveling the pearl.
Ripened and rich in sweetness,
a fount raspberry on a meager day.

Every night seems to end with me
in agonizing wildfire by the enlightening sea.
And all I have a chance to recall
loses the memory of the last step when I walk the new.
So the universe hides all I, myself, find worthy of holding tight to.
And by my heart’s lake,
the mortal coil pulls the golden thread,
slicing hemispheres
in which there’s no outlet
for everlasting riot.
Ashes invisible to others,
but obvious to me.

Judgmental cry of gaiety—
for them, for us, for me.
In the darkest forest,
Virgil’s gaze reflects
on fate, forlorn inferiority bestowed,
on the effervescent tree.

Some things you just love,
and you love to love them:
prevalent fresh breath with a strawberry finish,
pleasant aldehydes.

Some looks just burn,
and, aflame, they guide you:
a corroded car on the highway,
where now fungi grow, nurturing a flower.

Some roads are detested,
and so, they face no suppression:
never saying hello to the acquaintance.

Some arms rise to the skies,
dreaming of affection.
Bubble gum blows into the palm of your hand.

Some hearts leave space
for opening and staying,
while other hearts hesitate,
knowing the price of paying.
Slightly opened doors have a habit of opening wider,
letting the cold in.