The rose was
not looking for the morning:
on its branch, almost immortal,
it looked for something other.

The rose was
not looking for wisdom, or for shadow:
the edge of flesh and dreaming,
it looked for something other.

The rose was
not looking for the rose, was
unmoving in the heavens:
it looked for something other.

Walking in dim thoughts
with the sound of rain outside.
The dripping pattern takes
me on a pitter-patting journey.
I'm neither here, nor there,
and yet somewhere
I must be.
Craving to be healthy,
in mind, body and soul.
Content perhaps?
Aware of who I am
and who I will
always be.
Is anyone like this?
Really?
Or are we a collected
mass of android
arms reaching
lamely for
robot parts?
Artificial emotions that
fester out like
***** mud shoes left
in the hallway.
We yawn internally
to avoid the truth
that we are bored
with one another.

Raindrops continue, as
does my doubting heart
as it wraps around
the possibility of
funerals and
Requiem Masses.
Long faces and
sighing masking
the indifference
of striving.
Together in mood
but far apart
in disposition.

Carry on, rain,
carry on. Slip
your wetness
against the dry spell
of my perception.
I can see. Or, I can
close my eyes to
imagine that the
tomorrow of thought
becomes the infested
reality I will be living.

I spend too many
careless storms wishing
for other days to arrive.

Between yesterday and tomorrow
you breath heavily, drinking the milky sunset.
at your door, indifesa creatura, you find only peaceful adoration
knock knock too late to knock too late to tick time has run out
Between yesterday and tomorrow
there is a certain fatigue in your brains
I wish these hours never passed, with too much thirst
Thirst for sunlight, thirst for unknown fields,
visibile in the sky slit by lightening
Between yesterday and tomorrow
the present moment ceases to impress,
already gone, already painful,
like you could never feel the frail infinity
hidden in the transient touch of our lips.

2.05.2017