Holding.
onto myself, tightly,
along with my arms which seem
to be too short, too… thick.
They've always seemed to be
too slow, lacking expression.
so I gather them inside myself,
as this poor self
would firstly accept them as they are…
then it would paint them,
sculpt them,
adding them a finger or two,
until
my poor arms
start looking
like wings.
but they are not like any other pair of wings,
they do not have any feathers or scales.
these are enclosed wings,
splinted to their marrow,
closed as some misplaced umbrella,
like a chisel with its hammer. 
or they might be… fine embroidery
ready to cover
the holes in my soul.
This is why, occasionally, I would hold
Onto myself.

Tightly.

poppies and chamomile bloomed roads,
covered in warm dust... such a pity
that these are the only ones left
to be pointing towards the eternal city,

where marble and stone still stand
on places gods used to walk bare-footed,
where belief was more than just demand,
until cassocks have had ancient ways sooted.

A place where manner was turned into art
And polymaths emerged from genius creation,
where Latin blood spills from heart to mart
In a continuous state of vibrant elation.

where green is the colour of oils and lust
and the sun can burn to a lemon flavour,
and the sand on the front of the boot is black
and the wine is more than a bitter-sweet savour...

There, where a walk through square paved markets
is bursting with hand-made stories,
where scratching through history's pride
would always end in timeless glory...

words are just wonders
   one
          can release,
                 but only one's pen
could ever crease
                     into the safety
of a poem's lease.
     so this
        is
        a
    note
        to
       a
  pen.
      "
     Oh,
    draw
  Your line
And never
Look back
From those
inked words
that flow
   from
   your
   clack
   and
   let
   them
   flow
   into
   sharp
   flack.
  or maybe
  give words
  that proper,
  warm embrace  
  which can get
  lullabies fall
  into disgrace.
  or maybe just
  draw a perfect
  dark contour
  playing with
  edges that
  make sights
  demure...
  add dots
  and spots
  on plain
  white
  paper,
  like
  living
  knots
  in the
  hands
  of a
  draper.
  pour
  some
  more
  ink
  on
  me.
   "

I want to believe in a world
Where ashes do not go back to ashes,
Where dust will not go back to dust,
Or into the bones
Of oblivion.

I want to believe in a world
Where hats would drop off
When the artist speaks,
Or sows together pieces
Of melancholy and precision.

Yes, I want to believe in this perfect world
Where a thought can be bought
For more than a penny,
But for a whole
Golden mine.

This world is both yours and mine,
So please believe in it,
So we can stop beating around the bush
When it comes to you and me
And art.