He was a stranger walking the wet streets of London.
She was an artist speaking her soul through a song.
The fiddle, her weapon of choice to let her heart sing beautiful melodies.
Melodies which could make any man's heart fall for her charm.

She had the beauty of a million heavenly angels.
He had no eyes for another woman but her.
He danced, and he let himself go possessed by the rythm.
She played for the world, but she meant it for him.

Days passed by, and they both met each other,
day after day, song after song.
Her heart spoke through her fiddle. His heart spoke through his poetry.
Their hearts composed beautiful music as one.

She stood on her stage, ready to fiddle,
but something was different. He never showed up.
Her fiddle still spoke, but its voice wasn't the same.
His poetry's tone was now a saddened, old voice.

Wind whistles ***** songs,
                      bamboo groves dance to its tune,
            the voice of my love wafts in fragrance
                                calling me from her hiding place;
                  my pleading heart, tender, love drunk, replies,
                           "Come hither, in a kiss fill all your fervor
                                               that would make me faint in its mystery"

my wolf is yet a plague of thought,
again I am consumed by loves gentle rock.
the more it shields me from the stench of my rot,
I remember all I once forgot.

no one has caught my heart,
in fact,
I think it's torn apart
so raw, the tragedy of desire
the smoldering fire of blue flames
burn my love into a smoke,
which I inhale with the attempt
to recycle and filter out all the hurt I've caused.

to myself
to others
and for no one.

a romantic dying hard
trying not to escape the truth
while at the same time trying not to create any lies.

"Y'know what? **** it!"
he said, "I'm going to become
a Monk of Music."

it's a misgiving feeling the thought of you leaving*

An airport terminal stretch of time
between the metaphor in my head
and the rhyme of your feet
stepping quietly on up ahead.

You said you'd be back within weeks,
business takes days, it's a climb
to the highest peak, you said
whilst walking through the gates.

It's a misgiving feeling
the sight of you leaving
you bag in tow down terminal's row
passport control, doors out,
disappearing

the deep water I believed to be treading through
was mud all along:

bed side table herman hesse
looks up to see one of van goghs, wants to undress
doesn't have a ******, this *** is a mess
she's not surprised
'cause she's a pessimist.

to her loves affairs:

she's keepin' shut
no more love left in her gut
the feelings escaped her through the cuts
one for every lover
she didn't give a ****
don't worry about her wrists
instead she likes to use her fists,
bad throws, punching chains
lets the men drive, fast lanes.
bruises are the names of the faces she misplaced
in her bones where she resides,
it's a pillow that she lies beside.

she's not a trick
she's not a *****,
most feared is to be a bore
so she smiles and speaks,
too much? doesn't grieve.
as long as what she's saying is something to believe.

as long as you're in the mood
to laugh
there's no need
to wear a mask
just leave alone
the aching things
that bring you
beneath
the weight of gravity.

heavy heavy heavy
leave me to my beats

I'll walk the streets

heavy