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Yes. Ride up the Yukon in winter –
No one to stop you.

I can see your tracks threading northward
and, once you start, it won't take so long

to get there, to the end, if it matters.
They say starting’s the hard part,

to get ready, tighten the straps,
test all your gear, all the training.

The winters have come and gone,
but the frozen river waits for you

to pedal through the deep snow,
because you will, now that you've started;

covered in ice, squinting in the glare,
and it was enough to keep pumping the legs,

filling the lungs, singing a song, to follow
the river north in the winter. Happy

to be there, in that blinding light,
with feet too frozen to start for home.
I don’t recognise real love,
And my father can’t see purple.
I say yes to pain and sickness,
And him? Well he just crumbles.
I am born of years of hurt,
And he is colourblind.
I am scribbled on a page but
Him? He is straight lines.
Now I’m not sure I’d accept it,
And he wouldn’t know it either way.
So I suppose the issue is that
Love is purple you could say.
In between the words
Are the dreams we left behind
As floor boards creak under
Hesitant heavy steps.
Between the letters
The camphor tree
Roars in the wind
Like a river
Flowing over its banks and
Miro’s spider waits
In silence
On the wall.
In the refrain
A pause
And the heartbeat
Of loss.
Time is like a politician
talking out of both sides of its mouth
First it is devoted to you
Then it's heading south
The hands of time are rude
They're giving you the finger
Maybe you'll be dead tomorrow
Maybe you will linger
In short, time will not be chased
It will move at its own pace
Like the rabbit gets complacent ,
and the tortoise wins the race.
She speaks cannon *****
and good morning blues.
She speaks sweet lilies
and rosebuds in June.

She speaks soft
as little light beams.
She speaks rainbows
over tall evergreens.

She speaks sonnets
and low melodies.
She speaks quietly—
freedom over me.
I ended up at the wrong time,
in the wrong place,
carrying a dead flashlight
that instead of shining,
offered me an elusive shape—
a spectacle of shadows.

What was a hand
became a dog barking on the wall,
or a ghost-rabbit
vanishing into nothingness.

My rational “I” still asks why,
and I have no answer.
I just smile with sadness:
that was the script,
that had to happen.

Bittersweet medicine,
already swallowed,
the side effects dissolved.
And I boarded another train.

Writing?
I only wanted an ordinary life,
with some humor
and a pinch of self-irony.

Saturn joined,
Saturn divided,
at 8:18 a.m.

Maybe we humans
don’t have the stillness
to break free from the pattern
of silver rings
made of dust and ice,
imposed by an ego.

Maybe we prefer
the safety of the shadow,
ice melts in daylight.

My story:
a new-old flat,
my imperfect poems…
Really?
For this, I was made?

I’m not a poet.
I’m a living voice,
taming incomprehension
convincing myself
that dawn is near,
and I’m strong enough to rise,
not looking anymore
for cold mirrors.
This poem is my way of catching a moment when something that once felt real and meaningful slowly turns into just a shadow, a projection, an illusion. I wanted to show how reality can sometimes feel surreal, and how easy it is to mistake a reflection for the real thing, like in Plato’s cave. We often fall for false impressions. The image of the hand’s shadow on the wall becoming a barking dog or a disappearing rabbit is my way of speaking about disappointment and coming to terms with what happened.
For me, every poem is also like a diary, a way of keeping things I do not want, or maybe cannot, forget. I try to leave space for different interpretations, but what matters most to me always stays hidden underneath. To me, the hand in the poem has already become a shadow. And somehow, even if it makes no sense, the shadow still casts another one. It feels like a game of broken telephone with consciousness. Scattered pieces only make sense to me as a whole.
Writing words for familiar enthusiasm, an emotion used to creep into the mind.
Creativity crawling out the head— like spiders each with 5 limbs of their own.
Pulling strings with their fleshy appearance.
A dance for free will compared to an object.
Sketching imagery with lyrical flows served to ears.
In spite of all the efforts…temporary rest acts as a trigger.
A writers block
A brick tied to my chain.
Words coming in and out the ears, not knowing what to do.
The headphones tune it all out, the pain of not being free— a slave to the environment and it’s still imagery.
The experience is mutual.
A lie beheading a rose.
- I was feeling numb when I wrote this so I was slipping in and out from reality to how I felt like emotionally.
So many of the lines talk about different stuff but the interpretation is up to the reader.
Dragging
Myself around
Wilted roses in my garden
The beats
Had no rhythm
Spotlights blinding
Gave me
Stage fright
My opaque
Image the bottles
That I hid in
My very existence
Felt numbing like a whirl wind
The science
Behind my being
Puzzled me to thee core
Beating on my
War drums defeated
More then I like admitting
As life often came
Bearing down
I never
Wanted fame
Maybe to be
Noticed once in a while
I preferred thee
Shadows
Behind the scenes  
Is where I found the most comfort  
Let alone to be comfortable
Enough in my own shoes
Towards the end
I learned to embrace
My loneliness
As I often reflect
On the journey of so many steps
I’ve lost count
With the finish line in sight
My final destination
A tent revival
The free falls often
Led to overbearing confusion
But what’s left
Of my penumbra remains
Will be reexamined elsewhere
By someone who truly cares enough
About me
More then I ever have about myself
spring is on its way,

the ants are in the kitchen.



they will leave by easter

whenever that is. he said

it should be on the same day



each year; he is learned,

pronounced as two bits.



it is nice to see them back

this year. see the snowdrops

too.
I loved you like the stars were inconsequential that night

because nothing in that moment mattered as much
as your exhales declaring your needs against the inhales of my dreams

and now I meditate
amidst the wind

inhaling
and exhaling

while staring at the stars

because god they are stunning.
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