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Zywa 1d
In my sleep, a wish

fay is tipping on her toes --


over my sweet dreams.
"Iconostasis" for pump ***** (2022, Elizabete Beate Rudzinska), performed by her on May 13th, 2022 in the Organpark

Collection "org anp ark" #205
So many “road stories”
from the Odyssey, and Kerouac, to Augustine.
Each rich in emotion and spirit
most of the stories
have the hero hitched to a fellow traveler
to bathe the soul in word and mood
to throb with the music.

I have recurring dreams.
I’m in a hotel looking for an elevator
can’t find my floor or room
or can’t find my car downtown.
I wander streets, and lots.
Are there road stories hidden in these dreams?

Why do I trip, fall
stay misplaced and lost
find only
transitory
destinations?
Hannah Apr 19
I did not believe,
standing on the bank of a river
which was wide and swift,
that I would cross
that bridge plaited from thin,
fragile reeds fastened with bast.
I walked delicately,
as a butterfly
and heavily
as an elephant,
I walked surely
as a dancer
and wavered like a blind man.
I did not believe that I would cross that bridge,
and now that I am standing
on the other side,
I do not believe I crossed it.
Leocardo Reis Apr 20
I know only
how to dream.

The worlds
I have quietly
put together
are not so different
than my life now.
But there,
everything is laced
with moonlight;
a soft glow.

I am free to indulge
every detail.
How many times
have I imagined
how the wood
of a window sill
would feel against my finger tips?
lua Mar 31
time slips from my fingers
when i count each passing day
that passes by like passerbys
on a busy street
walking past me, my disillusioned form
an escaped daydream from a chronic sleepwalker
a recurring thought

the clinking of atoms like drinking glasses
the passage of space
things don't make sense nowadays
never really did

i'm just a ghost with no body to call home
translucent and vague
people watching forever
forever a thought bubble in a lonely man's world.
Trying to survive
the long road home
but if you want to live
you ought find a new way home.

Talk to yourself like you would
someone you love. High places,
Low stations; can't place the hour
as I walk through these suburbs.
The smell of turf in the morning
and the taste of cold chamomile.
Zywa Mar 6
In the large bookcase

the cat is choosing the scent --


to lie down and dream.
For Vincie vG

Collection "The light of words"
MuseumofSoph Feb 20
Your brown eyes softly stare
into my starless sea

My endless story
You listen, no urgency

I hear your heart beat as I lay on your chest
I count the beats,
until my eyes give in to rest

I’ll hold your hand so you can fall asleep
I’ll visit you in your dreams
My heart is yours to keep
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