I reminisce and wish to get back to her.
She was free time, carefree, kind of gypsy-like.
Just one, two, three, four years ago...

I left her to search for purpose,
to build an edifice to lay
my wispy hair upon,
outside the window of a cathedral,
outside the window of a
tumbling Bolivian bus,
outside the window of a
Medellin teleferico,
outside the windows of
the crumbling concrete houses
below,
outside the window of
a drunken car; blurred cobblestone streets,
cooking asado with
my friend Jeriff,
cooking plataños alone
in a cast-iron skillet.
starting a small fire,
cooking tortillas,
spreading dulce de leche.

hearing sea turtles breathe.

pushing a motorcycle up a hill,
in the rain, for some lazy Colombian.
losing sleep under stars,
drowning in a waterfall,
drowning in the Peruvian swells,
running from a belligerent coke dealer,
escaping the shaman with drunken red eyes,
emerging from silver mines unscathed,
traversing 100km in four days,
escaping an Austrian love triangle,
leaving a loyal stray behind.

I don't have wispy hair anymore.
I left, led a boring life,
built an edifice, and watched it crumble before me.
Where is the girl I left behind?

a woman's work is ever ongoing
she cooks, washes and does all hubby's mowing
the list of her daily duties quite long
she's never free from these demanding tasks
her days are as full as the fullest flasks
at no time is the housewife taking spells
every minute rings in requesting bells
few assist they're off singing an easy song
whereas the underpaid maid grinds tough stone
her hands worn down to barest possible bone
women carry tons of bricks a real heavy freight
not for one second will they idle or laze
they're running around in the busiest haze
by week's end they do feel a loading's weight

Upside down world this is
Where even Alice would
Loose her tracks
This forest inside uncontrollable
Lack of purpose
The path is squirming
From left to right
Leading nowhere
But puddles of
Unidentifiable earning
Somewhere between bitter coffee
And lack of sleep
The absence of inspiration
Is seeping at a childhood dream
Air is free of substance
Like the dungeon of a
Crashed butterfly
Fly away little bird
...insect... whatever it is that
Makes you feel safe
The winged mouse
The pterodactyl of your own creation
Tell me what is that truth
That strings all these beads
Into a sufficient reason
To continue the conversation

Woven in tears of collected misgivings
for his voice never to be heard in the halls
of man, just echoes of nothingness.

For he was a fiction of man, fed through mouths
never one his own, for courts jested verses of
there needing not those repeated and reversed.

Words are power in anyone's hand, the tonged syllables
are hypnotic in a wrong mans purse. Listen to knowledge
and fact, falsehood is a serpent biting back.