no air in some dreams no naivities in my nails
there is space in my shade for all of you

my eyes bear spirals of tremors
I regain my trajectory, I feel like saying
the ink of childhood held in small bottles
my heart a bird on wire sometimes
I wear eau de merveilles for the wind
the essence of weeping beheld by
deep eyes raging to the open sea

I open my window to a door
a door to an oasis of bones that
sing lullabies to unborn mornings

passion is the mother of invention