Waiting around.
My hands are still, and my heart is slow.
My stars still here, but where will they go?
Coiling around.
My mind is numb, and my nerves as well.
Does this snakes meal, have will to yell?

It's strange to say:
"Paris is for lovers."
Considering love has shipwrecked me.
Here in Barcelona.

It is a long walk.
That one has to take.
There's no map, but lots of directions.
From Barcelona. To Montmartre.

It's not quite apt
to fix everything.
But perhaps it's at least content.
There in Montmartre.

Monsters are made.
And beasts are born.
But we - what are we?
Our nature torn.
As ancient and deep
as the ocean's great sleep
The sea - oh the sea.
Will swallow what we reap.
Boundless as sky.
Like a mockingbird wry.
Be free - oh be free.
Of what we men pry.

Oyasumi, ne?
The flower suffocating -
ice piling towards heaven.
Deluged in the driven snow.
She will bleed in Spring's embrace.



Sleep well, just this once.
The flower suffocating -
ice piling towards heaven.
Deluged in the driven snow.
She will bleed in Spring's embrace.

Soft hands from a horizon I don't know
Flit small tufts of shimmering white sea
And gingerly test the bones of each tree
To - or from - a world I'm too scared to go

There's a warmth set inside here that imposes
That I reach not past the glass and open no door
That I break not the paths my heart once bore
But my garden is now frosted and I've only corpses of roses

The crackling hearth whistles, snaps and proposes
That I settle my regrets and wrestle no more
Renunciate the whispering wishes and settle my core
But is this warmth just a trapping as the door slowly closes

The frost looks not biting, not sharp as my woes
And the roads look not traveled, not as worn down as me.
But the snow has kept falling, unbounded and free
And I've wasted these moments, too, lamenting my throes.

A sea so still, where waves don't crash.
A balcony
The moon won't see.
A hearth alone, that won't make ash.
This still from which I must be ripped.
Instead I pray
please take away
my thoughts, my heart. I lose my grip.

Thrashing winds weather worlds to dust
and purpose fades to wanderlust.
Pillars of salt, clad in rust.
Is it sadness found?
Gripping chill cuts to bone through flesh
To ignite memories afresh
To spark the nerves, throw and thresh,
Is it rancor grown?
For years and years you've built this shrine
You've watched the sun set endlesstimes
Vigneron, blind to his own vine.
To lose it all; at last unbound.