There’s a jail amongst the jails
inside my darkest noesis,
writing doctrines, sending mails,
Why do I love you?
The thought of freedom is so sweet,
the sunshine is so teasing;
I don’t even have the time to read –
your jail is just pleasing.
Hot and Cold are changing between us
like the poles of two atoms;
even turning back to the electric charges
ends us up in equilibrium.
Under a confused mind of a cloudy meander,
I was sitting where two tempests clashed,
The colours were drought by the blender-
Of a blinding light as if a camera flashed.
Under the gravity of the grass on the ground,
I amazed miraculously how the sky split,
As my lamb-like soul split years around-
On a play-ground of an o-childish spirit.
Under a mysterious frozen fragment of time,
I saw my prisoned prism in the height,
Held by a bird, a bird.. a bird that I’m-
Surely, my soul will never see the light.
Under the brightening crack on the darkness,
I was the white dove with a shot-spot,
Bleeding out in a dark ink of numbness-
With the body as a soul-less cold splotch.
On the bosom of mother nature
where the life reaching to the high,
I feel eager to forever stay there,
Jumping in its evergreening and die.
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)