My hair is a tuft of clouds
Who knows
Maybe I could find an angel
Hidden there
Having fallen from the skies

It was never a walk in the park to try and fit in the niche,

Patterns altered,

Values allocated differently,

Galaxies were spun,

Poles far apart -

When I turned into you.

Your algorithm modified,

Borders merged, goals changed,

But, the race starts again,

An endless search to find a place.

I lose myself in spectral alternatives
Of an uncertain and nonexistent future.
Tormented by inconsistent thoughts,
By inconsistent perspectives
And in the countless possibilities of the horizon.

A feeling that accelerates the chest,
At times paralyzing and tormenting,
Moving in disharmonious rhythms,
Expelling an unmeasured air
From a gasping breath.

I cling to the present
That runs and does not forgive,
Thrives and insists,
Being the only one that resists,
To the past and to the future.

Lost in the peculiarities of the crowd,
Searching for identification,
In the warmth of companionship,
In a hug, in the comfort of a smile,
And in the depth of sharing.

But they remain empty,
Suffocated by loneliness,
Shouting within a space
Without transmission.

By such fleeting people,
Lost among so many options,
Passing like Russian roulette,
In search of the perfect alignment,
Nonexistent.

But, in diving into unpredictable moments,
In the whirlwind of scarce and immortal time,
Is perfection found?

No,
Just a temporary relationship,
Built by the strength of company,
Extended by the strength of love,
Often sustained by the constancy of habit
And continued by the convenience of routine.
Yet, beings so diverse in their "selves"
Change, mold, and transform.

Perhaps that is why the constant struggle
For encounters and mismatches
Is so few and fleeting,
Consumed by the fire of passion,
In search of the consistency and coherence
Of the multifaceted and other being.

Boxes became my constant companions,
each house a temporary heartbeat.
I built homes with one hand holding a child,
the other gripping resilience.

BECOMING

There is always resistance to change,
the pursuit of perpetual growth,
becoming being like the moon’s
relentless phases as night gently
prints itself on world.

Soft rain falls like new thoughts
on fields dancing with spring.
What was there before and gone
is becoming once again.

Clouds drop flushed notes
on the vapor of the air,
bubbles over river pebbles
form, break, and form again.

Becoming is a song not yet heard,
melodies promising wishes  of
unknowingness.

Becoming lies just under that
thin layer of life, those infinitely
precious seconds before what is
to be.