barked and barked and barked
beneath the light-bulb moon
a careless whisper in the twilight winds
that opened the doors in the house
walked beside the corner of my bed
questioning me,
talking to me,
persuading me,
like a market vendor
who tells me to buy its products
when I got no answer to tell
only cut phrases or words
stacked. I am afraid to tell
that the future is not on
my hands nor to everyone
only existence and existence

How human it is to speak with a drawl
to define and expound and interpret it all,
naming objects and assigning a label
placing a meaning and fixing it stable.

Is it really that thing that we named, overweening
or is it's existence outside of our meaning.
A teacup exists in a ritual of convention
a utilitarian Chinese invention.

But it's also a collection of bone dust and clay
the function transforming the substance this way,
the matter and molecule existed before
and after it's broken it's bone dust once more.

We build a construction of nouns in our head,
the meaning assigns a convenient "instead"
As the vessel returns to it's matter
language and labels and meaning will scatter.

Impermanence is both fickle and cruel
but in a grand triumph of human renewal.
we impose hope in our order once more
pretending that chaos bends to our lore.

I wake water steeping me,
A sleeping foam of rolling sea.
Each little island long washed,
Day by day, slowly sushed.

The grains of time ever fleeting away,
It ate my island, slow decay.
It is hard what I was.
It was hard to alas.

Now I am in water,
Light so bleak.
It is eating all matter,
Darkness will seek.

I succumbed time of break,
Gone of world, Earth that quake.
I not removed my last eye.
For all, it is lastly I.

Mouth empty,
Feast for entropy.
Lastly sigh,
Of I.

A figure lurks in the shadows,
its gaze fixed on me,
expectant
hungry
lifeless.

As I walk on the narrow path
of life – unaware at first,
I feel its presence
slowing my steps with unseen weight
like stones filling my pockets underwater.
The sun dims when its near,
colours leaching from the world.
I want to run,
but the path narrows,
thins to a tightrope beneath me.

The figure waits
forever patient,
sometimes distant as mountains,
sometimes close as my own shadow.

It grabs the coattails
of my existence,
clawing its way closer
with each heartbeat,
each exhale,
each moment of forgetting.
Until I can feel
its breath
on my neck.

It whispers in the voice I know too well,
murmurs dressed as memory,
lullabies of failure,
groans of what might have been.

I do not turn,
But I know it waits.

A figure lurks in the shadows,
Still, I walk on.
I have places to go
Before it takes me.

On God, shall we envision old flowers.
Landscape, they stand on greenscape.
Definality? We shall define them gold.

Crumble a star! Shall a new be born?
I'm none but a witness for them.
The new generation shall build anew.
Yule horror? No! Shall they wither!

For it is who deemed true,
shall abide for amendments.
For it is who deemed boredom,
shall a man spread flowers.

Whom for man?
It is human, a human...
A human, from the mankind,
waiting on the cliff for someone.

For me, a pen
and smudged ink on the table.
For them, the sky and clouds.
For them shall decipher
For them, a skybreak.

Fire, for him and for us.
A small sacrifice for our enjoyment.
A small temporary heat
to warm the hearts and its owner.

Sunrise shall arrive by the end line of the sea.
For us a small savor against its motherly silk.
Flower a fragrant, and its fragile beauty against almighty.
Asoothed by him, shall no devil bloom against our wither.

Landscapes shall ruin against greenscapes!
Change! The frame of stone caligraphs for a green curvy paint.
Wither shall not bloom against you.

"Ah, an arriving creature," shall us wave a misty silk of greenscapes.
Shall us, greet a warm candle in winters.
Shall us be not a wither to others.
Let us be a witness for the wandering cavern voices.

For us a new start...
For whom should we serve?
Ah, a pen..
Write aside a candle?
What a moment I miss...

I see what I do,

I walk toward it too,

I fly where I stitch the new.

In this eternal dream,
I wake.

Wake up.

Sounds become feels,

The chapter spins and reels,

I watch the scenery shift and peel,

Taking the weight of what it deals.

Wake up.

I begin to see,

A cage that begs to break free,

A silent plea caught endlessly
A dance with death,
a fleeing decree.

Wake up.

Is this real?

Nothing begins to feel.

The past bleeds into the future’s seal,

Bound to a fate I can’t repeal.

Wake up.

A S̵͖̉͝o̵̡̞͓̖͊̀́ư̶̛̺̻͛̽͂̋̈n̸̝̜̖̥̓̎̆̏ḓ̶̰̥̝͕̗̟̓͑́̾̃̈̋̿̏̑ͅ?

A bed of comfort found.

A pulse that hums beneath the ground.

Or is it not so round?

Ŷ̷͍͙͚̝̈́̆͂͐̚͝͝ö̷̩̳͙̯́̿͜ͅu̵̼̘̞̳̣̓͌͐̏̔̇’̶̢̹͛͑̀̍̈́̓̐͑̈͠r̴̈́̈́͆͌­̯̲̱͚̬͇̠̤̯̖̄́̊͗͋͝ė̶̟͎̭̱̓͆̋̈̾͐̈́̕ ̶̫͔̤̟̫̯̥͉́̾ǹ̷͍̉̅̓̓̆̃o̸̢͙͐̾t̴̥͆ ̷̘̖̰̯͖̘̙̂r̵̨̛̘͚̲̈̈ͅe̶͇̙̭̙̽͋͒͜ǎ̴͍̙͚̹͗͛̽̌͝l̶̤͖̇͋̽̆.̶͈̣̩̱̦̉̀̅̐̿̈́̉̚͠­̯̣͕̫

I heard the other day that you went to touch the blue horizons, riding the lonely waves.
I heard the other day you were walking along the endless shores, stretched across for miles upon miles.
Leaving only your solitary footsteps behind ...

I have never seen these shores, never glided on the blues.
Never caught a glimpse of the vastness that embraces eternity with such grace.
Never for a second in the life of a singular eternity have I thought that maybe, just maybe, serene feelings lie in simplicity.
So, next time, when you go to the and walk along the endless shores to meet the horizon,
Will you take me along? ...

It's just that I've been thinking recently.
How, from the beginning, we are rigged to self-destruct.
How much we yearn for oblivion with every atom in our flesh and blood.
Yet, we never think for a moment about these footprints we leave behind.
And our parting sighs ..

If you look at me now.
Sleepless nights, bloodshot eyes, weary soul, and still trying to reconnect.
But you were always beyond my reach, always up so high.
Endless foolish attempts of mine to reach you among the stars.
But everytime I have overlooked one simple fact.
That you have always belonged to the sky ...

Live on, and keep dreaming on.
These self-centric lifestyles, mine and yours, ours and theirs, closer and torn apart.
If this is the definition of love,
Why am I fighting for peace? ...

But I heard that you still dream, still write stories, poems, and songs about all of us.
Chant music of the olden days from the depths of your soul.
The saga of human existence still makes you think that love still blossoms.
In the far corners of this world, like a still blooming rose.
So, the next time, when you write another song about the love that still blossoms,
Will you write some lines about me? ...

You should write something beautiful, something only a foolish romantic would say.
"Hold my hand close in the middle of a crowded street, and maybe I will reconnect."
So that I can answer you with this,
"Make me believe in closure again, and maybe I will again look at your face." ...

If it's not too much trouble, can we just talk all night?
Just you and I?
Until the stars cross our paths,
And sing us a lullaby? ...

I heard that you still wait for the end of the eons at the edge of eternity.
Still watch the starry skies on melancholy evenings with the eyes where the horizon finally came to rest.
I have never seen this edge before, nor have I seen such evenings.
So, the next time when you go there,
Will you invite me? ...

Maybe we will watch the starry explosions in the sky.
The end of everything on a melancholy evening,

With your hand in mine? ...