There are poets, who sink into
themselves, deep into the infinite,
where their soul once melted over
and emptied. A poet to be kissed,
hugged and gestured to. Blossomed,
intertwined, like tangled vines.
In person, they have nothing to say
but spark so much, in their loud poetry.

wanderlust thirsts for earthly scents
the farewell of a soul allowed without fear
for gratitude becomes unnoticably purer
on cracked lips above ****** sandals
and searcher is the silent word in my most
valuable friendship with this kingdom
we feel the temporary darkness trembling
and point at birds that refuse to stay
despite our crossing footprints despite
the black hourglass of our history
full of secret horniness

I would prefer to distillate your tears
drink them with a smile for everyone
and sadly point out the sparkles of hope

what keeps me from doing so
some call wisdom