Over the surface of feeling
skin healing
from cuts bruises and scars
what happened to us being made of stars?

we sit in black holes
no money for energy bills
it’s a battle of wills
to survive
we strive
Just to be alive
and yet our dreams perish
yet we should cherish
each other.

I trust my deep scars inside/outside me,
cause they stayed for long , even others had just left

I am gazing at a shining portrait as my desire is announced by distant bell chimes. I merge with the paint and feel absorbed into a different timeline.

In the painting, the wind carries a scent of a familiar tree assorted with the melody of its leaves. It all brings back the memory of a song that I love, that reminds me of a woman I met in a vision from a dream yet I don't know the language it is made of, nor I can sing it for I am dyslexic in the ear.

This is an illusion, I see it. Still, I deem it to be real, similar to a scene that I keep reliving as I wander the mystical golden desert, I wonder is fulfillment an insult or a compliment if attained outside the ordinary strains of sensual accomplishments?
Disconcerted by previous arrangements i think it through to realize this is an illusion is just a tattoo .


Words Of Harfouchism