I could never tell you
exactly what's going on inside my head,
so I'll write instead.
Drown my thoughts in paper & lead.
Keep my hands alive,
and my expression dead.

By my dear angel Sandalphon as he has been lead in my hand, leaving a clear trail of a cursive writing on a transient sheet of paper,
A crimson sight, so black that one would be caught in trance, reflected by unnatural light of a lamp flickering in the dark of the night, as his feather releases a sweet scent of fresh yet unused ink,
Together with Zadkiel's blooming and happy memories I then am capable to write such down, in an attempt to create poetry, focused,
The sound of scratchy, itchy, rasping echos through this room I inhabit, but already left spititually, engaged in the world of fantasy,
Word by word, the paper is penetrated by this pen, pleasantly, thoughtfully, gently sliding over it to not damage it by accident,
There is no need for haste, heartache nor rush, not is there the need to be concerned about this angels work, duty and his mission to accompany me throughout each and every writing which unfurls,
Alike a story from my mind, from my emotions, deepest wishes, cast on the physical realm with his help,
And once his strengh weakens, fades, loses might and goes out alike an dying ember he will be dunked in fresh ongoing determination, so that he can repeat his duties with exuberance, joy
Casting a smile on my face once literature has been created,
As then I lay my dark knight, my servant for the night to rest,
Until another poem has to be written and his duty awakens him,
After all, in this dreamlike tale it is well to remember;
You don't have to die in a dream

~ Umi

A fluency within a displacement
                                 of symmetry.
      Empathy lingers after factual
      embers leave charcoal stains.

                 The nib static,
                                          so much
                          without a gesture
                                  of movement.

Pen and pencil residue
Scribbled across a crumpled page
My words
His words
Yours
What do they all mean?
Still they make me feel things
Tears staining old papers
Not sure where these thoughts come from
It's been a long time now
Though it feels like just yesterday
These empty vibrations we put out back then
Still find a way to reach me now
This sting will last an eternity
Unless I throw it all away
And let the memories fade

You will say: “You’ve been holding out on me!” -
and that will be the day when this landslide of poetry
Finally comes spilling from my lips, because I can no longer withhold it -
And you will awake in the gardens that I’ve been growing here,
Looking at me with brand new eyes, like you’ve never really known me before,
Or seen me, or felt me, and we will roll together
Among these soft petals of imageries, fingernails like lilies
As you lift the pages, see them turning, these little white leaves,
Changing with the different seasons of visions and daydreams,
Thousands of hours passing in your eyes blinking, reading,
A living river of emotions flowing into those irises, of
All the things I cannot speak or explain or convey
When you are sitting here in silence, gazing deeply into me,
And I am leaning into your warm shoulder, wondering,
How I can turn these precious moments
Into the best kind of poetry.