So many artists struggle to find their style.
Then fully become said style.
As writers work to find their voice
and fully become that voice,
but I have no voice or style
I am multitudinous,
multi-dimensional.
There is an infinite variety
of possible and impossible realities
which exist inside of me.
So I express such diversity
with almost the same variety
of verbal and visual tools provided for me;
Not confined to how you define I should write
but free to discover everything.

1043

Lest this be Heaven indeed
An Obstacle is given
That always gauges a Degree
Between Ourself and Heaven.
By a Hum.

I see you dancing in your words
and I see you smiling too
I hear the music of your life
that brought me to you
and into the night
carried by Pegasus
to reach the stars
those distant memories
until you fade out
a wonderful reverie

Hours become days
days become years

Like the flickering candle in the wind
Thoughts pop up from deep within.
Panic the soul feels
maybe never again to see

So distant and close so near and far
Never within the arms to hold
Never to feel the coolness of your breath
Never to hear the pounding  of your heart
Never the flushing and the rushing

Craziness that you asked to be defined........cant fully tho

We hinge reality on people
We hinge reality on the church steeple
All that begins will end
But the starting line is in your head
We call reality free
We call reality me
Take a seat under you favorite tree
And you might come to find what those words mean

The sun loomed young through the ribs of the Punic Port
Bringing back his turquoise splendor to the Med-Sea;
And Seagull, who in his morning flight did escort
The golden loaf of bread fishermen longed to see,
Soared higher and higher over the glazing port,
Preparing for the long voyage when the time be.

Expectant and white was the Carthaginian knight,
Oblivious of the blue peril; no long flight
Would scare him, no azure thirst would he have to fight.
Only the phantasm of an alien skylark,
who would despoil the timer of the golden sun &
peck out her "off" button  with his accent mark -
Would make him soar & sing in his vision of bravery.

(c)LazharBouazzi

In the yellow,
cold light
of the wine-dark
night _
between the new mall
and the Roman Site _
he staggered
alone,
drunken
with "Magon"*
and memories.

Vast,
so vast is the night _
vast
as the memory
of an English
prairie,
and an emmer-haired
maiden
he had walked
to the ferry
on a summery day.

Vast,
so vast
is a night
masquerading
as a want of sight.


© LazharBouazzi