My perspective on the world,
it has become tainted
over the years.
The colours swapped places,
tricking my mind,
it seems psychosomatic.
I open my eyes,
scared of what I might see;
it's not too bad, I suppose.
My iris' are now
windows of stained glass
as I gaze upon the world.

As a poet, I can confirm,
I can assure you, we know the words.
We can shape water with our minds
and speak of what we were.
We can crystallize our wonders,
we can make them seen.
It needn't still be
no more than a dream.
This is my confession,
my work here is done.
It was once my obsession;
now it is gone.

Fields of amber grain
clash against the greying sky;
The smell of petrichor coming from the rain
makes you wonder, why?

Is there a reason you're here?
Are you, perhaps, a godsend?
It's something to fear;
When will it end?

Small and plump,
a slow bite into a fruit
that sings a song of sweet and sour
until you clash into the pit.

Tu m'as sur des cordes
qui tirent à me fendre les poignets.
Ma tête tombe mollement,
mes yeux sommeillent.
Tu bouges les ficelles,
tu fais un spectacle de moi
dans une étreinte manipulative.  
Tu me contrôles
comme une marionnette.

Every line the pencil creates,
a sharp turn or a thick stripe of lead
seeping into parchment
will create something beautiful.

The harsh bite of the Nordic winds,
how it harmonizes with the moon
to push white waves across the ocean,
it's a true wonder
how the wooden ships drift so raggedly
on sapphire waters.