today,
an unexplainable joy
electrified my body.
i dreamt about the future
and i felt bittersweet
because i had chosen
the hardest path to freedom.

i was a bird, a hunter and
the wind.
i killed myself and then
i was killed;
change seemed such a cliché
but death did not.

my story is worth-telling.
your dime novels sell good.
i can let you invent an ending.
tell them who i am
or who i were.

wish i could take a glance
at the lands behind the sun;
are we indeed the lucky ones?

huge spheres and stars fail
to fill the biggest void of all,
yet people complete people
and love is methaphysical.

people invented death,
but some of us feel immortality,
not me, not you, but those
who got their name carved
in the sky of other blue dimensions.

how can we live
a life that was not lived before?
we cannot anymore.
we are just parts of the universal soul.

i have been scared of death
since the day i learnt i was alive;

blue ***** drops rise
from the heart of the ocean
reaching for the forbiden place,
reaching for brightest star
that will bring their end.

for them we are as irrelevant
as an orange cloud in a storm;
the raindrops which fall on our faces
are pure and cold, but carry
the gold.

yes, i write about you,
but you are someone else
in my spectrum world.
you are a saviour,
who will save us all.

are you a saviour in the real world?

i could read out loud
for the ivy which climbs my walls,
the poems i write
about her heart-shaped leaves;
because i know that
her innocent vanity
will not make her poisonous.
but for you,
those poems would be poison,
the roots
of your future toxic actions.

yes, you once did me good,
so i borrowed your name
and now i am letting the old you
live
in my pretty words.

it is autumn.
you are golden;
you were golden
in summer
too.

summer is gone
and gone is the only love i ever had.
orange was the sky,
blue was my heart,
but now i have to go back,
to my home,
to old Pleasantville.

i am young,
i should have more fun,
i will not be young forever,
i should enjoy the run.
the stars, the sea, the mountain peaks,
every man watches them,
happy that the wish came true.

you and i,
we fitted the golden picture,
riding our rented bikes in the square,
ingoring the danger in the air.

one day, i passed by phoneix café;
weren't you the one
playing bass guitar there?

saw you at a table before,
tying back your strings
in safe double knots
so that you show 50% of your grief
when you perform.

biker jacket, broken soul,
you were hurt by something
that you still adore.

they see that.
they find themselves in your pain.
but do i know, do the boys and the girls
in the first row know
who you were months ago?