How do you know?

Where the lovers go?

Do they run, towards the setting sun?

Or secretly meet where the water kisses their feet?

Or perhaps bathe in the light, feeling more than alright.

Where ever the lovers may be, I hope they get a chance to come get me.

there is hope here            the morning sun
leaves loaves of warm light on the doorstep

after he left - leaving a letter –
she realised the room had no windows

the light claimed a green pear
as she drank sweet tea

at 10.09 she was required
to generate her own light:

*in Café Gigi she generated her own light

Being in love is like following a voice through chaos.
Now I've lost the voice and choas has disappeared.
The voice may come from different speakers throughout your life, but it's always wisdom, soothing and correct.

She's told me hold on and all that.
Why'd she go I don't know.
We were making it.
We were.
Oh well, I'll know her when I hear her again.
It will be some time, though, as I recognize I still have a significant distance to fall before I can pick myself up and prepare myself again for chaos, chaos that holds the voice. I'm gaining a lot of weight.

Alphabet soup

I could never tell their order, for they all came out so fast
All the letters in the alphabet, all came with a blast
Words I did not recognise, words I did not choose
All of the letters they kept scrambling
All of them amused.

I see them all before me,
A vast ocean full of glee.
Words becoming sentences
Grammatically painting pictures
For one and all to see.

I see pictures from the present
I see pictures from the past
I see pictures in natures many guises
Some of them cast to last

I read of the mystical meandering, that comes from within Pandora’s Box
I read of the mythical dimensions, of Devinci his ruse that seekers seek to unlock
I read of the magical new beginnings, in nature as seasons produce its flocks
I read of the wonders of the universe, bequeathed by scientists since time started the ticking of its clock

All the wonderful letters bequeathed to those that note,
All the wonders of the mind, its senses from which the stories float.
All these special visions’ artists choose to collate,
All these special pictures writers choose to paint.

(c) 12.14