A proof of truthful reading.
That it’s still of me and that I live:
Left out of and in crying,
Its [story’s] departure by pain of death trespassing.
Justly, so.

Every ending sentence of a subchapter
was here a melancholy more punctuating
Than all the statuses of things
Coming and leaving, explaining better
Than silence.

Lace in eyes/meshes of the numbers,
In God’s notebook.
Miracles of joy, of enigmas from Poetry
Poured had been into the study
In navy blue of mathematics.

The beige of rain of each dot
At the end of each subchapter.

Now I know what the blank pages are for:
Literature is a person,
At their death you don’t leave them
without a word, a touch.
You leave, at least, an epitaph,
with beloving or not.
For at one time you both decided
to bear with each other as one.
You let each letter have and bear
its part in your mind’s eye.

Every time you read:
“My memory lasts 80 minutes.”
Ellipsis.

Thank you
ありがとう

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.

I praise Allah and thank Them
in both the physical and existential aspect for every beautifully greyish day
when I feel back in an English harbour from the 17th century,
where birds, ropes, wind,
bells and hammers against
the ships’ casings resound,
half in my vision stuck on reality
and half verily,
or on a faraway heather field,
where my books, thoughts,
words in pictures
and lives of Heart
are as if my own
tremendous in passion atelier
of a scribe
or my other flowers of brown.

I posses adoration in these grays,
blues, whites,
greens and browns of these days, freshnesses and delightments.
Nevertheless I need to meet and comprehend each other
till the end belovingly
with the Sun,
see behind its backstage the lack of imposing Time,
periods or actions, rush.
Sit down once without carnal duties
nor other shenanigans
and witness the whole solar and lunar cycle for the whole 24 hours
and thus see beyond their mechanism
and presence
and thus go
through that next conscience,
through these silver-golden curtains
with navy blue clips.

Isn’t that sitting over,
sitting down face to face
with the Day,
supposed Time, Matter,
instead of constant doing,
having or confusion
of the thoughts
the same as finally looking
straight into the other person’s eyes
to give them our witnessing
of our attention,
a bow,
and at the same time
a proud head raising,
especially for them,
instead of walking around them
and treating as another matter
to be solved?
No rhetorical question.
May I reach as fast as it’s the best
the beloving of wisdom
as a true philosopher
in my identity, not cognitivity.

It is fascinatingly probable
God balanced, protected, recompensed
how I feel misplaced in the confinements
to the vessel, in a biological
femininity even more being said,
by shaping that body as a speech
in my structure and palette embedded
of nature’s casts, messages‘
endearing faced:

I am put in a sunflower’s shift
when bearing a heat with caramel toning,
in the skin,
swift golden towel ‘round the
form naked,
shoulders
and all other petite
through that standing strong
like a sword’s leather hilt,
and eyes with hair of tenderly
made browns with lights and darks,
as freckles shining scattered,
with their origin from Gold arriving,
or at last the very nutrient
dark centre by seeds posed.

When sodden, it is a mangrove then,
the caramel whole now slick
yet strongly dense as its roots,
like when I get myself firmly stuck
on feet like double arrow
spread limbs
and like mahogany shade
stand reading images.

Or there’s at last and at wind
the cherry blossom:
my thoughts and sensing presence
are so beloving that they
emanate pink in passing,
just as it’s flowers with no fruit,
my top, a crown,
swaying branches,
irregular protruding.
I bloom so dearly with my shading,
I could almost kiss like leaves,
like they do with me.

Wish you could see me, this,
such loving dear sight to be.
Like slick, promising, calm own river.
Alas, an eerie beige coat that flutters
with child dreams