I cultivate the subsoil, the separation, the height,
the thoughts crossing the sky,
then I let them go.

The rhythm of new boundaries
It’s the beating of changes
I carry on ripening
and I give them a name, a sense,
as simple as it might be
is essential.

The rain makes me weak
like it weakens the ears of wheat
bent down by the gray  
surroundings are compelled to.
Bound to a strange delight
my bones get soaked in the strain
and It's blemished everything I put out
Poured out

Never take too seriously the hopes of spring
They will last till the desert dry summer.

Rising urge
of looking outside.
The window
almost wants me to draw near
and the full morning light
comes right in.
No good reasons for,
that knocks me inside
like my own thoughts,
fluttering and spinning around
In search of ease
and breakthroughs.

So much room
for the spring to leak on me
seeping in, through
the sheer white curtains
I would pull back,
cause where I can see you
any clear vision is so rare.
Not just in my head
new lifetimes call
for the great unknown
to get me outside.
Rising urge...
ever since you.

A slightly crooked little smile
upon getting a sense
of the game it all feels to be,
it shouldn't make me tense
as long as I can see...

So I try to take on and play
and yet my shoulder hurt
on a daily basis overcome...
when you turn away into the unknown.

Hide and seek.
fun and free
erratic time given to each other,

Live and learn
get and let go
something to survive one another.

So I try and win a little more
over this weakness I have,
as lust over love does then...
when you return so intimately warm.

You flee and you chase
I take you by the hand
somewhere in between
I adore and I hate
you take me away in the end..

Maybe one of us is to win or lose
or maybe this way no one ever could ...

Little things started to rile
by all odds,
not quite like the ache
head leant against your back.

Under cover a long dull hum
I thought of ghosts,
but I faced down the quake
until your aura had been caved in.

Like a god in disguise from on high
withdrawn with no words
but with human inability to break
and get the best from doing wrong.

Little tale or true story
him and her trying each other out
but got back to the ways of their own.
"The pagan and the profane on an isle."

There are fears
I can't stand for
when there are reasons
to get out from under them

We cast stones
and hide the hand
for there are chances
To find we're doing too well

Lying to ourselves
wanting it all here and now
complaining about frustration
but so afraid of existencially change

Scared of the truth
we don't want to know,
carrying our heavy brains along
that feel so full and despoiled the same

So high and dry
once roots pull us deeper
we're too fooled and stuck
But eyes start whining shouting out loud

We pretend to care
of our mistreated spirit
but it's left alone fixing us
spilling visions of good things

bigger and closer than they really were
somehow kept in mind by heart
because being made of love
we're meant to see and feel
and be who we really are.

Something bigger than I am,
those shoulders over mine
and faster than I can be,
cannibalizing time,
it's not sad,
I'm not sad...

Someway it's worth one's while
seizing bubbles from reverie
and in between no crime,
starving now and then
I'm not dying,
it's not dying

What comes by nature grows,
poignant embrace to abide by.
To sharpen up a stem to a lilac rose
leaves bewildered but crucially alive
it's just my thought...
I'm just in a thought

But first I am
real and here
on my own to venture onward.