I was on the plateau when it happen.

I always hated going under it in the middle of the day. It felt like a mirror; a reflected isomer — too still and too sad to be near. Shadows give that same feeling, but with blurred corners feeling slightly farther away.

I prefer going under the bridge at night. Cooler, like sunglasses that you don’t have to put on. The night as a way of saying, “It’s not up to you what you get to see now. I decide what’s important for you. Which is absolutely nothing”.

I miss you.
Here at the foot of Mount Royal
(really only a hill),
which I climbed this morning,
I miss you.

I ask what's real.
In this clamour of work,
of French and English ...

It's your touch that's real,
your eyes looking-at-me-with-love,
your lips.

Here in Montreal,
at the foot of Mount Royal,
I miss you.

the sun sets to the west
over Mont Royal

like the sun sets to the west
over the Hudson Bay

and you run to catch it
as if it were the last one

and you think time passes
while you're away

but everything is on standby
even the rotation of the earth

waiting for you

C old & cool
A iry & abuzz
N atural & noble
A ppetizing & appealing
D angerous & dandy
A muck & AWESOME

when she fell,
not moon, nor wind responded
'an abysmal fall, indeed, '
was the carnal cry in the woods
'he who shelters such a wand
will surely be understood'

and the words fell like lightning,
one sunless morning of half-regret—
which quickly turned into a noon of wonder
~
..circa 2003..©2003/2017 Spiros Zafiris
..channeled; spirit Ram
~

This cruel winter wind
Is like a thousand daggers
Piercing through my skin

blur of rock, snow, trees
I drift in and out of reality
dream of swimming alone
at night, the sweet danger
your hand on my leg

this highway becomes
endless motion
reach into the grey night
beg a cigarette
off the gypsy woman
desperate
addictions will destroy me
one day, nothing left to do
but wait for the next stop
watch your breath form halos
of precious air on the window
misty and cool                
hey, beautiful stranger
could I rescue you
from sleep, your hand
on my leg feels like nothing
else but it won't last

the driver speaks to me
of wandering souls
in a few hours he promises
we'll be somewhere