The sky sometimes calls my name,
A playful whisper, but serious. I travel
with the wind as a guide, on top of these
frustrated rocks who can never stand up

and stretch. My escape now belongs to
October. The broken saint he is. The
golden, oranges running the clouds,
on sunset. I saw what it meant to be good.

This lake surrounds every thought, from
this mindless night. Abstract reflections,
glowing far off. I give in to this kind of
beauty. My guard cant bare to coward.

And even, if it is love, I must pretend I
am of no soul. To avoid the heart break
of the beautiful, cold mornings alone.