I remember as a village member,
I cut a memorable road in the wood…
I remember as a walking wobbler,
Some deep thrill made shrill the route,
Covered by the blackness of Blackwood.
I remember as a faint bystander,
What a dark power had that wild park,
Beware-embraced, making my eyes sharp,
Taking its hideous darkness like a lark.
I remember with a tender temper,
Some river’s ripping ceased my shiver,
I – a thinker, harkened the silent timber,
How the water seduced me to drink her,
Whether I will fall to flaw, following her.
I remember as a deep slumber,
I answered the call, the fanfare, I heard;
The song of the fake stream was a lake,
A lake calling me with its narcotic ache.
I remember as I remember,
As if that freak lake wanted me to keep,
As if that deep lake… made me to leap.
The only I remember as a member of the lake,
As if I cut a memorable road in the wood…
Facebook. Twitter. Google +.
Machine-made, ever, daily fuss.
Planes. Trains. A traffic jam of cars.
All those like-likely likes, tho no one cares.
Insta. Reddit. Picasso.
Seen, liked, read, then go.
On Iphone. On bus. Living-room.
Iron, silicon and other sources to exhume.
Cold. Solid. Simple. Breathless.
The world around us is deadly reckless.
Courtesy? Strawberry? Flowers, bees living?
Where are the pictures that enliven without #following?
Dead poets had been lucky.
Looking at Living things – philosophically.
Sunny sky, cloud, rain, and a deep’ dark sea.
Feeling words that everybody and nobody see.
Methink myself -now- undead.
Living among things being dead.
A phone. Typing. Words. In the pocket, hidden.
Why am I living in the nature’s details, somewhat Bohemian?
The wind is my mild breath
The sunshine is my caring sight
The grass will be my smooth fingers
When you desire to go out.
The sun has been fallen;
The light was irregardless,
The park has been sullen;
I sat on a bench regardless.
If I had faced a human being,
I’d be able to tell the truth;
Whether I’d been seen or seeing,
W’ther I own or pwn the ruth.
Maybe, if I had chosen a buddy;
Sharing the self-created pain,
I would see that unlucky body
As an anchor to all my pain.
The park was empty as my soul,
As the store of my social acts;
It’s been a decade that I’m sole;
I surrounded myself with facts.
Knowledge’s become my only goal,
Brought by all the human science;
By the way, this is the only how
I could escape my own conscience.
Ed says bad, then Ed says do,
I am a slave of my own vapours;
I did bad and I did good,
Playing with time as vipers do.
Human animal am I,
For whom the sun is sullen?
Nay, I shouldn’t hide;
By time, the sun will be fallen.
Boredom has sewed dark clothes for the nightly sky –
Dark blue with white glitters.
The leaving sun wondered on it, forgetting its fry;
The heat urged the knitters.
The little ants kept collecting the bread’s morsels –
Their hardworking had no stop.
A kitten was watching the march of the little mortels,
Thou, it slowly started to nod.
The chirping birds left with the coming of the boredom –
Silence borders the night sky dress.
The nothing itself was building us the cordon
On me, that heats, geeks and sweats.
The destiny – whether one’s ready to
die on it or die for it –
has never been else than a given decision,
been our ever nature to screen it,
cast it, and act on it until we own our last deadend reality.
(The die has been cast. – Julius Caesar)
by this night,
we have no more secrets
from each other.
We won’t find out more
we have nothing more,
so, I guess
this is the best time
to say goodbye.
It rains drops,
drops of water molecules,
drops of Hydrogen and Oxygen combinations
with dust-like minerals and pollution
from the skies.
It drops rains;
rains of human feelings,
rains of coziness and shivering fevers
inside and outside of homes
been and never been.
It’s raining drops;
drops of eager-living hormones,
drops of synthetic concepts like poverty
with any form of possession
and with the lack of any’.
It’s dropping rains;
rains of drying happiness,
rains of sadness in a winter-like summer
with all the humanity
Cats and dogs;
it’s raining ceaseless happenings
it’s dropping away human-made humanities
and gives away paradise
for unknowing animals.
I grab the pen,
In the sand.
On the beach.
As all the pens,
How it ends.
The words just land,
In my hand,
Through the waves.
They try to mend,
My heart’s wound,
By their sound.
It madly sends,
Waves and graves.
The murmurs end,
When the wind,
Ends its trend.
The waves are grand,
Once God’s grant,
Then graves (a)gain.
My skin is brand,
I’m well tanned,
The pain must end,
What I planned,
The thoughts are banned,
It’s the end,
I can’t stand.
I drop the pen,
In the sand,
On the beach.
The weather is funny today
As it has been yesterday,
Thunderclaps and silences.
From the snow, flowers rising,
From clouds, sun shining,
The weather is funny;
Whether it’s resin or honey,
Honestly, I’m fond of its nature.
I’m really weatherbeaten, tho
After all I went through,
It’s still funny.