A Cimmerian hue overlaps
The thoughts encroaching my psyche
They seem to harvest labyrinthine symmetries
Of which I covet
It matters not the appositeness
The unidentified may bear
For by passages of valor I transcend

is it really so crazy
me wanting you & your baby?
i mean, is this reality?
the magnificence lost is sad to me...
i know not to blame now
i get no where that way but somehow
i take responsibility
for how my actions shook you into leaving what did i expect, yo...
our feelings is all we individually know
i mean, ican see how you MIGHT feel
from this end i pray one day you might heal
And i pray you reconsider too
that love overlaps me; a ***** into your boo
with you, i'll never let go of how i feel
because that brings me to a special place which gives my soul its seal
I'm keeping it
And a cold shoulder to anyone who threatens it
i am good alone i suppose
but with you it is when I feel i am whole
Peace
Love

Tessellation & Interstices


”A tessellation or tiling is the covering of a surface,
often a plane, using one or more geometric shapes,
called tiles, with no overlaps and no gaps…In mathematics, tessellation can be generalized to higher dimensions and a variety of geometries.”

the insistent need to be distinguished
means many are not,  
indeed,
this hunger
to be an influencer
and never just an influencé.

creeply creates a linear surface,
a flooring to be trod upon,
a tessellated plane,
were we each fit in
right-tight juxtaposition
and we are noticeable for our
uniformity and

the scuff marks of having been trod upon,
well used.

it is in the chips of irregularities,
the overlaps and the gaps
where we touch and connect
with our individual Ah Ha’s,
where our Venn Diagram Lives
intersect, infect, interfere, inject,
in the tiny
interstices
tween us,
the jagged, irritatingly edgy
rubbings
that the friction of creativity
is comedically inseminated.

I love a good tense sweat,
that invasive, deep boring burring,
that demands
instant creative solutions lest the angst of
an unwritten-in-the-moment-poem
is even more annoying,
before it is annoyingly,
befogged, lost forever.

that is why with old age,
fearsome fast
short term memory loss,
some turn to the speedy freedom of
free verse,
unconstrained by socks
and well fitting shoes,
and the slip on sneakers
of rhyming,
so insistent on perfection,
that the
burr is absorbed,
the irritant rubbing is creamed away,
and that loss of
a pouring of the soul’s ******* of
Done!
is
our exclamatory mutual curse

Hasina had gums of a prune colored play dough, much like the type which he used to mold and model into similar contraptions and cases. Contrasting with the teeth of a superb suburban plaster, the ***** contusion continued its conversation. Collecting admirers and adolescent adonis’ innocent of their sins. Since the inoculation, passed away, a pretense to nervousness approached the very essence of our chest; the bead of the brooch where we found the philtrum too close to the nose. Curling inside its own bare curves. A bed without sheet, hindered, harnessed, the horse dragged on.

We soon found that the things we feigned to hate would come close to fame, In a magazine cover sheet, handed in late.

Hasina, and her mother, certainly did not suppose that that beneath the floor boards, neither harm nor concern would be discovered. And neither was. With the way their will worked things became distributed. Disturbed guests of unwanted presents and gifts soon re-sent to other more malleable means of hospitality.

Hungered as the hundredth wolf come to late. He too howled, but not at the moon, or rather not its simulacrum of a glowing truth, its silver light, or any movements its clearly showed. Growing loose the tumor slipped out, slowly. And with a plop, pressed against the walls, The jaws dropped and the mason jar closed and posed on exhibition for lessons, and interests, obsessions, dreads, things grotesque pressed against the walls.

To be captured, resting above the skyscrapers. Where in the hours of dawn, space overlaps, a frowned pace of a clock grows fondly of the time that is lost and past.

I had too many things in boxes
Shut for too long.
I had the doubts hidden in the memories
And the faces I tried to recall.
I let them all sit in darkness
As they pounded my mind
Slowly I let go of it
And I preferred driven mad inside.
My heart was all I listened to,
I must have forgotten
How the beats were mine
and mine replied.
All the questions I repeated
But never asked you once,
Two possibilities I believe -
I thought I knew them all
Or that I was scared of what I didn't .
Now you have left my heart all empty
Too empty and I'm unable to have it shut.
The boxes have spilled over
And I stare at them
Strewn across my feet.
They are brown and bland and boring
As I used to be,
Insides are the truths
I denied my heart to see.
They lie so lifeless and dark
I am scared of its sight,
You have left me where I once had lived
But now I am scared of the things I see.
They are the remains of my heart
All broken and hidden for so long,
But they are the only truths of me
And I hid them from you, all.
My heart was a fool
Always have been,
It tried to win you over
But my mind was what stood of the truth.
Now you are gone
And the boxes have all fallen
Off the shelf and off the rack,
My mind is now all empty
And I can fill it with the world.
I should have shown you those
Maybe you would have been gone long ago
Now my heart is all vacant
It gave away echoes of your words.

I sit here now staring
Upon memories and memories
They resemble so much of the lies I know
I am almost afraid
Of the truth taking over.
I learnt my lesson
I learnt the truth ,
My mind has spilled over
And stained all that I knew.
I stuff my heart with boxes
Boxes I will never use,
They have your words and your promises
That you have kept
And my mind is now open
And harbors the truths I knew
-you would leave,
You would forget,
We will live as if we never met.

There is one box though
I don’t know what to do with
Whether to give you
Or have it hid,
It says the thing I never said ,
The one truth that overlaps doubts
And each and each possibility we would regret.

Don't read if tyring. Don't think this is absurd. Don't don't love me.
My grandmas hands were gentle as the skin was raw from water. I loved her.
Now you know me. She loved me. always. wanting me to wear a cap not to freeze deep. I always beat up my brother at chess if we play slow.
Clocks bounce me out of my natural rhythm. My thought processes are sheer speed as light and love is. Now you don't know me. The best ice cream I ever had was in Köppenhagen. The best strawberries are from the nearest forest. Not there. Aaaapchoooo.
                      We posses only the internal first right to grow

To become longer and thirst. . . for each other to be subjected to
                                       heart throat belly sweet feet wrenched longings and the Psyche subtexted and restored on our Path
                   saved from the diaries of diabolic old id

Awww the crazy romantics overlaps my reason frequently thinking of you
overflooding my boiling red rivers, being genuine blooe blood blooms

                          The Enchanter Neptune is here within this perfect I am entwined making love to my Venus and the Arrow of Eros flies impeccably from the bow's tangental string long before it hit me in the core of my radiant formidability
                            formatting the infinite flowers open from the rose bleeding             tears of honeysuckle nectar alluring even the still air around us
              
                      breeze deep lovers
                         our written diaphanous dreams untangle this fluent love of fluctuations - "madam i'm madly intoxicated with thou love" - spinning
                    mind to body
                             pinnin' up our glowing souls to the edge of the nearest galactic centre approaching as a dark unforgettable symphony
                        attractive spirits permutating
visages, forms and visions
                          zebras, donkeys and magnificent horses stampeding
to the shores of passionate burning collision    

I have had this most magical dreams of different creatures emerging out of the ocean waves forming in the foam of their peeks, or as large as mighty waves when they grab you and swing you on their amplitudes. We are all velocity swimmers, for others we dive, for me you floaat above the mundane... I love your thoughtful elegance This style of a heart budding into ions of ineffable revelations
I was walking under ancient palm trees and healthy pines . . . on the Riva dressed in linnen summers dress . A humble content joyful human being Castaneda's legacy dreamer ... A spectator of energy waves on the real coloured gem deep dark azul and deep blue see . . . emerging flamingoes and pelicans transforming into dolphins, fish, little birds, turtles, lions, whales  
                          each other merging
as a cluster of maidens in Roman bathtubs waiting for Turkish honey to be massaged and soaked deeply into their bronze white skins as they were a perfect medium for younger mystics : As they are tempted to be untamed from untainment again
What I do  know
         is that        magic is floating all around me and I don't convey this simple fact with exact assurance in no time : are we sinking or gliding as a spectre of wave lenght

My friend din't love Aurora Borealis. He's too much of a loner and I felt that the triangular topography of my electro charged notebook
was a magnetic love tale from the enchanted forest. I was mistaken. I could . .  in my utter..  the immediate intricate love crush occured

Unintentionall y
for The Northern Exposures went surfin' south. From here we switch easily from one Galaxy to another. Easily! Come! Choose wise, my inspiration, my
Nebulae
    before the cosmic wind rattles my green bones and crush them into nonexistence, brawling and wavering the micro humus for the next generations.

A Time Glitch
Hypnotised by the rattle-clank of wheel on world,
your eyelids sink, seduced into darkness
by the soporific roll of machinery.

The outside blurs and folds, the world overlaps.
Your chest begins to heave and slump with sightless breath
and mindless beat.

Caught somewhere between here and when, you slip
and fall into yourself, onto the bed,
the bed of a stranger. A soulmate.

You linger just a moment, a time glitch,
relieved by the horror, horrified by your relief
at the jolting pleasure between your parted thighs.

A molten bead of sweat, from his brow to yours,
branding you, marking you, claiming your skin
as his. You are one skin now.

And now, as if to take his newfound form,
you feel his hand at your neck, his palm on your throat,
your life in his grasp.

Surrender. He demands your submission not with his words,
but with his fingers: with the wheeze of your will
to live as it leaves.

And you do. Like you always will. For you know
that just as liberation is a form of control,
submission is its own power.

And just before your moment fades, you catch his eye;
that final instant is haunted by his furious love,
the adoring violence in his gaze.

It's over, and you wake to the strangle-gag of ghosts
to inhale the present. It fills you with sensation--
not feeling. You don't feel.

You can't.

A ball of yarn full of intertwines,
Though the core a mesh of twists and folds,
One thread overlapping another all around,
Like how one path crosses many others,
Twisting, winding labyrinth,
But organized into a sphere,
And when the sphere unravels,
The paths untwist and untangle,
We realize,
That the thread overlaps not another,
But itself a hundred times over,
A single, long thread remains,
Encompassing all paths into one,
Then we finally see,
Despite the complex intricacies
There remains a single thread,
With one beginning and one end,
Shared by all,
Though we differ in between,
I am you,
And you are I.

Attires of a closer regime,
Closed in on the muddling assets
of a light,
Flickering.
On a dead end street,
Through a meandering
There’s an eventful animus.
Past eleven,
P.M.
“To lobby is to redeem,
Apparently(!)
For I sin and repeatedly sin.”
Only by 1 and only through one
Single flock of wind-blown sediment,
man acknowledges life and
It’s dreadful stripe,
Laid upon a landscape;
Full of faux images of random schemes.
Well, there the ongoingness goes
Of moments that are no way chronologic
Where one plaster over another
Seems like a perfect match.
When the clock strikes to 3
A.M
Merely a sigh passes along,
Yet another minute,
On the cold street
The light knows no acuity at all.
It means for another tick,
Yet does not wait for the tock;
Tick-tock(!)
Tick-tock.
There lies 3 hour worth concurrence,
Confronted for each tock, for half a minute,
But only the seconds pass.
And with each skip that matters,
and only that matters nevertheless,
The clock goes back to
Eleven
P.M.
There(!) the gutter calls for another drink,
For another trace
On another strike.
However mournfully,
Escort of a humanly maze,
The muddling sort,
Births confusion.
The attires seem gone by now.
The heaves; quite impeccable,
The path adopts another protest,
For a much tackled breathing
Time overlaps,dreamily,
On a spectrum,
Laying as a single faceted imposture;
Mocking a postering of shed upon the pavement.
For another street that seemingly differs;
where the marching will always depend
(Regardless)
Solely on the counts of seconds
By the potency of motives
That merges as to defy
The years accounted
On the flesh and bone.
Now there goes another strike,
Audible over the plane
And
It carries on as
“To lobby is to redeem
For I sin
And sin
And sin
On a 3-hour worth strike,
Starting at 11
P.M,
Over another man’s bearing.”

when my pen comes to paper all i can write about is.. you.
ah it's been a while now since we last talked and i haven't been okay since. it's not like i'm ever okay but talking to you made me feel not so numb. not numb. made me feel. you made my heart beat when all i wanted it to do is stop,
you made me feel complete when i was nothing but empty all my life,
you gave me a purpose when i always believed that life has none,
you changed me. completely.
i don't know if it's to better or to worse but i'm thankful to you for both.
some days though, my heart fills up with so much hatred and my lungs fill up with unbounded rage and all i want to do in that moment is make you feel the pain i did when you left. i want you to hurt so much that it becomes unbearable for you to hold on anymore. other days i feel so much regret it's overwhelming and all i want to do is rewind time and make it right again. i need to make it right again. i have to make it right, but i can't.  i wonder how i can have so much love in me yet so much hate, it's like i want to choke you to death yet sleep in your arms. your words are like daggers and the more you speak, the more i bleed. the more you speak, the more my chest heaves and i feel like i've lost as much oxygen needed for me to breath. less each time. you'll leave me breathless one day and i don't mean it as a metaphor. it's not a metaphor. my suffering will never be a metaphor because i can't compare. i believe pain is perceived differenlty from one person to another and somehow i feel my suffering is the worst. everyone feels like their suffering is the worst.
with you, it's always a charade. a guess. a thought. a feeling. you're unpredictable, and god i love this about you. you're not perfect. perfect is flawless and you're flawful and with every flaw i yet get to discover, i fall deeper in love. i fall deep. i fall but i get up. i get up to prove you wrong, oh how i love to do that. maybe i am a little bit too obsessed with you? okay too much and you've got no idea how much i hate myself for it. i'm the sinner and my sin was getting attached to you. ugh, when will this go away?
when will you go away?
when will i ever stop thinking about you?
when will i move on?
questions that i have no answers to and answers i think too much about.
you didn't love me, you did not care or at least not the way i wanted you to. one sided. my feelings are always one sided. sometimes i wish i was born with none.
you left.
you left.
you ******* left and you are not coming back and i know it's my fault but you took my feelings with you, and i can't feel anything anymore. i need to feel. i need to feel in order to move on and i guess you didn't want that. you crave attention and you know i am willing to give you all of mine, for that you used me. betrayed me. more than once. and yet, i keep thinking so good of you because i believe the good inside you overlaps the bad. you're ****** up but that's what made me love you. i love you.

Five years ago I died.
I don't know if I revived.

****, thirteen really was hard,
But it was the best played card.

Seems like every day in the past
Still continues, overlaps, and lasts.

I don't know if I'm living in the future,
Or staying behind like an immobile creature.

I don't know what happened.
I don't know what's happening.

People just come and people just go,
'Cause relative to arrival, departure is slow.

You want to see the reality of me?
Good luck finding it, if it may be.

I died five years ago.
Nobody noticed.

My mom said she loves me.
My father did, too.

I think I believed her more than him.
I think he only cares about himself.

That's were I got my **** from.
I can't say I'm better than that.

It's all I was taught.
And now it's hard to get rid of it.

I'm pretty gone, now.
Trying to get rid of some things erased me.

It was an overshot,
But it was a shot.

I say **** a lot of things.
A lot people say **** me.

But I'm not them.
They're not me.

What does it mean to be lost?
I might be, even though I thought I found my way.

I thought I stood up,
To get off the ground.

I think it was *****.
That must've been it.

But I think I just crawled into a chair.
I'm a pretty lazy guy.

From a couple feet higher,
I can see where to go.

But without my feet carrying me,
I can't go anywhere.

And though I know a lot of things,
Getting all the way isn't one of them.

I think I died one day.
It may have been five years ago.

I've met the same person eight million times.
She didn't exist.

I did a lot for her.
She was inside my head.

I did a lot for me.
'Cause I'm not quite selfless.

But I could be.
Could I be?

I don't know.
I don't know a lot of things.

It makes me unsure.
It makes me unsafe.

One day that will **** me.
If I'm still alive.

But I think I died one day.
It was maybe two years ago.

Five years ago, I wanted to die.
But only two years ago, my heart stopped beating.

It was all a process.
It was a matter of time.

'Cause no death is instantaneous,
But it happens in a single instant.

I think I still exist.
If not, there'd be no head for this to be in.

It's not all just inside my head.
That's one thing I'm sure of.

But not completely sure.
Only a little bit.

She left two years ago.
She's not here anymore.

I made a new her two years ago.
She's inside my head.

She left two years ago.
I met her seven million nine hundred ninety nine thousand nine hundred ninety nine times after.

But only for an instant each time.
Then she would always turn into another person.

I got used to the phrase.
"Sorry, I thought you were someone else."

I wished she'd come back.
But not anymore.

I died two years ago.
She'd be wasting her time here.

But maybe she wouldn't be.
She wouldn't come for me after all.

She would come for other people.
To see people that surely still exist.

Why waste time on the dead?
Better to waste time on the living.

I might not be either of them,
Since I might not exist anymore.

Or I might.
I might still be a few songs, some words on a page, and some marijuana smoke.

I don't know a lot of things.
So I can't be sure of anything.

I started dying five years ago and might have finished two.
I don't know if revived, if I ever made through.

Time, an absolute, yet relative.

During hardship, forlorn, moments:
it is slow, tick by tick… a lackadaisical jester.
As if tomorrow will never come,
as if hours felt like days,
as if you wish to immediately die.

The pain is unbearable, the torment treacherous.
Excruciating agony, with anticipation of therapy.
Permeating through the skin, right into the bones.
Every blood valves suffocating, each vessel about to burst.
Your train of thoughts, muddled in convulsion.
Pollution, Persuasion, Permission.
The three overlaps, the three intervenes, and the three clash.
Like loud bangs and rambunctious cymbals.
CLANG CLANG CLANG.
“Make it stop!”
Your thoughts deter your peace,
and your sickness prevents your happiness.
The insecurities and hate abolishes your well-being,
all you wanted to do was breathe.

We almost forgot that we had the right to breathe,
that oxygen was given as a gift to release.
Inhaling and exhaling should be a blessing,
and every minute should not be this stifling.

Sometimes we forget that time is against us,
and we are the enemies of ourselves.
Don’t continue living if you are actually dead,
but do things that make you alive so that when you die,
you will have no regrets.

Time is absolute, but you can also make it relative.

Blank canvas
I cleaned my brush
So do I need to know
About your past
And drag mine
Into this now?
Saturated colors
Some dark edges;
A focal point
Can we not paint on white
Start out right?


Blank canvas
Is not ours
I do not require
A new work of art,
Superimposed
Upon our past.

I take you
As you are
Along with each stroke of brush
You have crafted until now;

The anatomy of us
Overlaps with the portrait of our lives
I see the whole spectrum
Let us look at the big picture.

Drug me
with your strongest dose of addictions,
between the spaces of our future sins
I embrace
every adventure behind closed doors
as long as mine is embedded in yours
I feel safe
and anxious at the same time
not physically mine
However
for that moment we unite
intertwined, tight
Unbreakable
strength within the space
adrenaline you can’t replace
This feeling
even in absence of time
rough yet smooth, each line
Overlaps my own
and I search to caress the inside
skimming sweat from both sides
It's okay,
slowly caressing my protection
merely fit to perfection
I’m addicted
to the movement, and touch
overwhelming rush
Of serenity, and flutter
nowhere else I’d rather be
you drugged me

a false clay mask
covers clenched faces
hoping the edges wont break
held together by the cracks
of the bitten lips
a single drop of pain
reignite the agony
for silent it wont remain
behind the quiet yet heavy
mind full of deep confusion
black clouds of frustration
overlaps the screams of the
crying heart

What was the time when we started the evolution of ourselves ?
What was the time set when the first clock was built ?
Past is only an abyss overcomed ,
Passed and been through with our minds physically and mentally
And future a chasm to be magnetized into and dragged down in ; working and going so hand in hand that like writing this piece of verse being the present is being my future as well
The window of transition from present to future being so narrow it actually overlaps one another in ways
So thoughtful and ineffable
The present being me writing these lines and the future being the outcome the whole verse which is now in process while I write this
Only a thin line of perspective and time difference or backlog occurs between them
Keeping the both distinguished from
each other letting them mean what they truly attribute for
There are three abstracts working simultaneously -the past present and future
The cognition of the brain undergoing a change in every single milli - seconds ; a transition from its current state of mind , carrying the neural data of the past nostalgia into the future
Those 3 abstracts                                               Playing its game of mutation and novelty over mind and body ...
While in all this the soul is the one feeling the time .....

And on he goes like one who rose
To walk a sea of spiders’ lace
Along the fields, and seems to sense
The breath of heaven on his face

And now can see a lovely thing
To charm his blinking eye:
An opening, a sky of blue
With cloudlets coasting by!

The fragrance of the morning!
His sense unto him shows
The Earth, and springing from its dew,
The grass with sweet winds sighing through,
Bushes and trees as yet wet through
Borne with the happy air into
Both channels of his nose.

And to his ears now comes the tale
In which all this is said,
The treetop finches descant high
While on some low spray growing nigh
Blackbird both murmurs lowly by
And frames the melody’s reply.
Eager to bring this to his eye
The good man gladly runs,
The tunnel opens to the sky,
He issues forth at once.

All in a woodland clearing
The small, unresting bee
Visits each offered flower,
The breeze each offered tree,
The dandelion thrusts forth his head
With yellow fire upon it,
The trim, demure anemone
Her neat, white, modest bonnet,
The little winking violet
By light unvisited
And tiny-fingered stitchworts
Their dainty napkins spread,
Within the wood the bluebells
Their peals of colour ring,
He knows the place – Old England.
Also the season – Spring.

His long, perplexing journey seems
No more to vex his head,
Like one condemned and now reprieved
He leaps for joy instead,

And shouting runs and waves his arms
With unrestricted mirth,
And throws his face down in the grass
To kiss the reeking earth.

We come from utter darkness
And soon return again,
Why is it, in this fleeting life
Of grief, of loss and pain,
The fit of bitter sorrow
Outdures the weary Moon
While joy and with it comfort
Dissolve away so soon?
Just as the pecking sparrow
At Winter’s scanty scraps
May not enjoy his morsel,
The short day’s last perhaps
For fear the shadow of the hawk
His business overlaps.

No sooner goes the good man
Upon that meadow blest,
No sooner is his outstretched back
Upon the rich earth pressed
Than all his limbs go tense again,
His brain can have no rest.

Once more into the tunnel
He has to make his way…

Oh, give me my exile and send me away,
For passion is the bed that I lay.
My heart being the star poet,
Creating ideas not so foreign so that,
You can know you are the ink in my pen,
And I cannot create the beauty of words with an “if”, but a “when”.
I will not live in a land that blurs at boarder.
I will make it so that I am love’s hoarder.
But a strange habit, I am specific with my choice,
Desiring but one with an impromptu voice.
As my vice, I will fix you until you can see,
Using my words, you won’t have to read.
They paint pictures of what could be and what will.
Here they overlap. You are my lengthy thrill.
Knowing I should know not to indulge in your eyes or you touch,
Whishing that my hands and heart let me do as much.


Alas, I cannot keep myself from you any longer.
This game of catch will be caught. I will be stronger.
Enough for me, and the both of us. I will speak with conviction and pride.
No longer behind my prose will I wait and hide.
You and I are one in the same. I can see you see it too.
The silence overtakes the city’s traffic. It overlaps and cuts right through.
So in this last moment of silence, I hope you hear what everyone sees.
Vice or not. Scared or distraught. You belong with me.

breathing in and out
breathing in and out
so many words
the beginning and ending
of the worlds words
the eternal loop from
word to word and to
the sound of silence
the sound of silence that overlaps
a lot of beginnings and endings
of words words and again words
a lot of words and voices
a lot of talking, talking and talking

a lot of a lot of things
the sound of eyes closing
lids clashing, open and shut
open and shut, open and shut
foots hitting the ground
left and right, left foot coming after the right and the same over and over and over and over and over the
beginning of the breath that goes in
to the ending of an exhale, breathe out and in and out and in  
wind over wind, that speaks and speaks and speaks to me
and at last the last clashing of the lids
eyes shut to blank silence a vision less vision in a tubular void
in the dark, and sound of silence
getting louder and louder and louder
it is never quiet in my mind and self that envies the ability of a needle in a clock
to move on second to second
and not dwell in the past

-Kaya

should I lay chin pressed against the pillow
I held onto as i child
times where I believed the world consisted so little of the color black
the hue overlaps my movements
even when I wave hello to every man that has ever come across me
the hellos to every man that has ever possessed me in that sense
but no not ever
really
tunes that fled into my ocean
when I was a child
oh times where I knew that life didn't offer much mercy
for your plead
and your case never stretched so far
so little
so little
you will always be
in heaps and large amounts of light hearted
daunted quainted quilted
catastrophe
ebbs into clear water that tastes like medicine
down me
down me
the day that i came into this place
I learned to stand straight
live so gracefully under a veil that will become permanent
and under eyes
under my real eyes
hands that moved
under my real hands
and thoughts that spoke themselves on paper
and never
never
out loud
I stray walk and smile
into every being of interest
destroy captivate
release
inhale
exhale
all the love
all the love

You are an unfair creation
Whose thriving light is limitless
Even when your smile flashes it towards the isle
isle of where men like me stand weakest

To shower myself in your vibrance
That is both viral but full of life
An explosion of combustible matter that warms homes after winter
You are like that

A portrait of kalpana, a dream that overlaps my reality despite meeting only once,
but you don't notice.
And it made you all the more beautiful.

different forms
transitioning human life
being overlaps

Such a fascination!
A line or less
and the story was done,
we'd leave the cinema
with dreamy eyes,
maybe a sense of relieve
for exiting that parallel world.

We'd step fiercely,
a heroe to be,
can't you see?,
underneath the costume.

But then the end
comes in front of us,
its symphonical pomp
is a seed of fear
and we grow a human size,
a small one.

A cheap tape and the line
stutters the end the end the end.
One by one, all characters
in our own story
desert the scene and
we roam in a parallel world
of unfamiliar faces
where memories lack of proof.

There we stand or not so,
heroes of loss, on our own,
and a line or less, the end,
overlaps a swirl
of autumn leaves.

(You may all leave, now:
there are no credits
in one-man-size productions.)

The foggy mirror
Displaces your image
Back to you
Distorted and the right on the left
Left on the right

You rub your hand against the glass
Use the sleeve of your shirt to pierce the fog
Though it does not disappear

It’s permanently there, you decide
Along with the black mold that lingers at the corners
And at the sides

You look further into it
Just a piece of reflecting glass
Or that’s what it seems to be

You look directly into the middle
Not at your eyes but at the material of the glass
There is a small speck with no fog.

You start again to run you sleeve across
But starting at the speck,
The fog slowly circulates around the mirror
Like it is holding a pool of fog

You push the fog so it overlaps
And the edges are a deeper gray
A clear spot emerges in the center

You put your finger right in the middle of the spot
It’s not painful
But it’s not comfortable
There is pressure on your finger

A vibrating sensation
An other worldly pull
You are completely mystified
By the images that swirl through the fog

Though not of another world,
They are of yours,
They are what you may be able to hold in your hands one day
The others what happens with nothing in your hands.