Imagine a young fervent swarthy portrayal,
caramel strong un-clad lady,
yet at touch so “douce” and glued
whilst leaning out
from a window
slender rainy on a balcony too urban
pane
And eyes at digital art
Spin a confession
Of how the watered petals of flowers there
do not explain
The origin or calling of the rain
And that its every end or beginning
In her unbetrayal made swayed
Has actually
since always
there
been taking
its rightful place.

The world in that fact
does not have,
find
nor
make relay, sense.

Someone right  on the other side’s
staircase stroll
Would extract their own core
by extending through their ribs own

her beloving so longing and old
that one at last will find it
possessing a too hurtful call.

Head lolled.
Dew owned.

Can you deduce
basing on one’s
trepidations
and heartbeat
what notes and melody
complete
or
fulfil them,
precariously and intimately
decomposing and
striking?

And what sophistication,
what greatly mindless
analysis is it
when you acquaint a process/
surrounding/
issue/
object/
a person
throughoutly,
approaching in full
immersion like
the day
you go through
and not like going out
into your garden
from your house
for a few mere moments
that just make this escapade
a trespassing event,
without even looking at it!

What patient devotion
must that be to pay
for the prize of entering
its mechanism
and presence emanating,
even more
when that
“it”
is what your mirror
shows both to You
and your body,
or the sonorous car engine
driving you insane,
or...

or finally reading
the architecture of letters
of a Book
for the first time
in your life
with
comprehending actually
the story of the text
or the painting
that architecture gifts you!

And
still
what a horrifying
acknowledgement
would it be
if that
“it”
would be Life,
Time
or the World,
anything like
that in itself,
and thus there
would be no wonder left,
no excitation,
like living an immortal
existence,
a God that has gone
to every corner of perception
and galaxies,
has witnessed every
mechanism
that then starts only
to repeat itself
nevertheless
and constantly!

And
diverging from that,
maybe the reason
many minds believe
that Magic and Literature
as an apparent coming true
in our passing
are nonexistent
is that we restrict it
solely to blank pages
we fill with imagination,
to Child’s
“fads”
that
are actually
“freedoms”,
whereas
they are more
than possible
if we bear it in
ourselves,
as it was put in
the Kybalion:
As it is on the inside,
it is thus on the outside.

Like when I was standing
just a while ago
saying goodbye to the sea
in shouting silent beauty
of transparent words:
the beach to my far left
deserted
by tourists
and chosen by shadows
with Sun
and looming trees
all of a sudden
was more than verily
a shore
from “Robinson Crusoe”
or “The Treasure Island”,

just called to run and
peruse no matter
if something was waiting
or not

Or how now
whenever I write
instead of speaking
to a person
I do not differ them
by their ID
or biological data
and make revelation
of myself in the same
Godly, well perturbating
way like Pythia
and don’t care
if its a wise child,
a seemingly important
member of some affiliation,
or stiff standard model
in human skin.

It is simply all
multiple
constant Metamorphoses.

Small and brown
Wrinkled and worn
It's insides hide secrets, nicks and some nooks
Mold of thy mind, mold of my soul
When pen finally falls
When the body gives finally breath
And man I am gone
It will stress me none
Because I loved, I cried, I laughed
I lusted with wild desired,
More importantly, reluctantly I confess
That above all what puts my heart to rest
Is to know that a tiny speck of me will still be here
In this leather bindings my soul will live

Each day hundreds of cells die
And hundreds resurrect - those who
Compose my body, my self.
Thus, I change each moment, bit by bit
Without realisation - a continuous transformation.

Each cell that composes my body
-Living and Dying-
Is as much as heir of my existence
As any other.

A collection of all cells
Makes what I 'am'.
The thought that holds onto a desire of immortality-
Amidst a continuous flux of birth and death
Is perhaps what 'I' am.

Fell on my roof and broke he my shingle
Hitherto soaring an angel, fair and atingle
He tried, you see, with birds to mingle,
But no bird did acknowledge him, not even a single;
So thus being denied - he decided to die;
He folded his wings and swooped down from the height;
Just like one of his own, so long time ago,
He fell to the bottom, and I witnessed his fall;
With a rake did I stand, daring not to attend
To this one, but I meant him no harm;
But only to help to regain him of dwelt
His right place; his birthplace; but that look on his face
Prevent me from doing so; that look of a woe
Told me all that I needed to know;
Woebegone; but I hauled him and tried
(Though in vain) to drag him; so tired already was this seraphim
In unconsciousness even; this indeed I could felt; but then eyelids of his he did rise;
In surprise he looked all around; he saw me;
I Am Grateful To Thee, said he to me
The Place In The Heaven Secured Now For Thee,
But Now I Must Walk; and pale as a chalk
He himself from my arms did absolve; all resolved and determined he stepped on a road
So I thus for the first time an angel behold