May these words float you by.
May these words float downstream,
On the river of your consciousness like melting snow,
Penetrating the subterranean water fields,
And drizzling wayward until one day their true meaning appears to you.
May their sonar life hold true expeditious consequences,
Like the very first chirp of the eastern bluebird,
May they draw enlarging circles in your mind,
Like the age rings of an old tree,
Ripples on a quiet pond.
May they blow away the unwanted morning fog,
That prevents you from spotting wild rabbits in the distance;
May they illuminate one of your lonely nights,
And offer you the - oh so needed - escapade.
May they guide you when you are lost,
And dazzle you when you are stuck.
May these words reach you, fly you by,
and may you then allow them to spiral down like leaves on a fall morning.
Let them be swept up by the 6 AM gypsy man.
There could be more.
;
What words may be appropriate for the subtle yet devastating uncontrollable drug-infused 5 AM eye-blink?
Which words can describe the feeling you get when,
On the side of the road,
Your visions unveil a myriad of once known and now gone, forgotten faces?
None, and all of them.
Night after night you unknowingly take my hand and propel me to the unclaimed territories of your dream stratosphere.
How do I know? Because the oneironaut can finally observe the view.
Far, far away from our understanding of interaction, forgetting even how to speak,
The surrounding environment is symphony enough, and the exchange of silent smiles is our dialogue.
A quiet cat crawling on the rain guard of an orphanage,
Accompanied by his comrade the salamander,
Jumping from cloud to fact and back to their argument again.
What do they speak of? Or do they speak at all?
The spectacle of urban chaos and household secrets is immensily satisfying enough.
Gazing upon such a definite horizon of infinite possible stories,
One may learn to welcome all of them.
One may learn to share them, not vocally, but by being.
One may learn.
You take me everyday, in mind body and spirit,
Without knowing,
And there lies the forbidden pleasure.
I surrender to the fight before it even starts,
Bathing myself in the idea that when I render myself yours,
You will finally become mine.
I have no decency in my dodging of traditionally socially constructed relationship bylaws.
Look at my eyes,
flickering from left to right or suddenly staring you down,
subjugated by the internal conversation happening inside your brain to which i am not invited to.
What are days and hours compared to the gargantuan scroll of dreams?
Here and there, now and then, for a while and until the end of time.
Nothing,
Absolutely nothing can hold value compared to the moments spent with your head resting on my chest,
Your wrists delicately shackled by my hands, and our synchronized breathing;
Embarked together on a journey of sheer imagination.
Stop.
A perverse dream.
You are not mine.
Your head has not rested on my chest,
I have not tasted your lips,
You have not heard my saccadic respiration.
You are no God, and I am no human.
Yet I wish to skip the introductions,
I wish for us to forego our respective sacrifices;
we may admit our mood and give in to the swing.
Jump from a rock to a water-lily,
On to the shore and back in the water.
This lake is ours, the river is ours; the trees.
My body is yours, your mind may lead,
and when it is time for you to retract,
May it be of a mutual entente.
Cascade of brown hair,
Going from the dark shade of tree bark at the the roots to the glistening moonshine of sunflowers at the tips.
Your navy blue sweatshirt and your white socks inside your white sneakers make you look like a cloud.
A cumulus of white steam supercharged with the scent of a thousand vines, and that tastes like sea water.
What I would give to doze off on top of you, my head resting between the twin peaks of your garden of eden.
Prime instance of self-control, your quietude, your calm, your stillness, is just a front.
What do you do, where do you go, who are you when you are elsewhere?
Could you take me there?
May you speak in my ears endlessly,
without expectation,
allowing yourself to take me fully,
picking me with two fingers and dropping me inside of your brain.
You need not my banal opinion or socially accepted comebacks.
I would give you my ears and nothing else,
If it were that I was allowed to tune into your breathing.
I would not speak a word,
enjoying to the fullest the entwined entity that our combined presence creates in silence.
I would listen,
and,
Oh! I just want to draw figures on your skin,
Feeling with the tip of my fingers every crevice,
every flaw,
and every curve.
I wish to hold you tight like a blanket made of water,
burying my nose in your neck and feeling the tickles of your hair like sun-warmed pollen in my nostrils.
You are indeed a god,
and I long, beg, dream and pray every day for your pardon, your mercy, and your unconditional love.
What could I possibly offer to a god?
Eighty kilograms of dead-weight in the form of flesh, muscle, and disappointment.
The love I offer is puny;
it is egoistic, simplistic and purely fantasy.
Have I even asked what you wish for?
"A thousand moments with you. The rest will be life,"
You answered.
I see you,
not shaking, twitching, blinking, stretching, scratching,
none of those.
An angel statue of marble with intricate, delicate veins in which the blood of your being gently flows.
I would lick the stone and drink the sap...
______________________________________________________________________________________________
A powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse,
Lost in foreplay we no longer care for the main course,
what would your verse be? If all you had was but a word, a thought to share,
If you had to choose between work and play,
living a life in monochrome because any other color palette is suddenly too much to bear.
How come out of nowhere,
Immense importance is given to the smallest of details,
In a life where players walk around starring at their feet?
Where has the genuine, shameless, human confusion gone?
Are we all lost in the image we've created?
On the river of your consciousness like melting snow,
Penetrating the subterranean water fields,
And drizzling wayward until one day their true meaning appears to you.
May their sonar life hold true expeditious consequences,
Like the very first chirp of the eastern bluebird,
May they draw enlarging circles in your mind,
Like the age rings of an old tree,
Ripples on a quiet pond.
May they blow away the unwanted morning fog,
That prevents you from spotting wild rabbits in the distance;
May they illuminate one of your lonely nights,
And offer you the - oh so needed - escapade.
May they guide you when you are lost,
And dazzle you when you are stuck.
May these words reach you, fly you by,
and may you then allow them to spiral down like leaves on a fall morning.
Let them be swept up by the 6 AM gypsy man.
There could be more.
;
What words may be appropriate for the subtle yet devastating uncontrollable drug-infused 5 AM eye-blink?
Which words can describe the feeling you get when,
On the side of the road,
Your visions unveil a myriad of once known and now gone, forgotten faces?
None, and all of them.
Night after night you unknowingly take my hand and propel me to the unclaimed territories of your dream stratosphere.
How do I know? Because the oneironaut can finally observe the view.
Far, far away from our understanding of interaction, forgetting even how to speak,
The surrounding environment is symphony enough, and the exchange of silent smiles is our dialogue.
A quiet cat crawling on the rain guard of an orphanage,
Accompanied by his comrade the salamander,
Jumping from cloud to fact and back to their argument again.
What do they speak of? Or do they speak at all?
The spectacle of urban chaos and household secrets is immensily satisfying enough.
Gazing upon such a definite horizon of infinite possible stories,
One may learn to welcome all of them.
One may learn to share them, not vocally, but by being.
One may learn.
You take me everyday, in mind body and spirit,
Without knowing,
And there lies the forbidden pleasure.
I surrender to the fight before it even starts,
Bathing myself in the idea that when I render myself yours,
You will finally become mine.
I have no decency in my dodging of traditionally socially constructed relationship bylaws.
Look at my eyes,
flickering from left to right or suddenly staring you down,
subjugated by the internal conversation happening inside your brain to which i am not invited to.
What are days and hours compared to the gargantuan scroll of dreams?
Here and there, now and then, for a while and until the end of time.
Nothing,
Absolutely nothing can hold value compared to the moments spent with your head resting on my chest,
Your wrists delicately shackled by my hands, and our synchronized breathing;
Embarked together on a journey of sheer imagination.
Stop.
A perverse dream.
You are not mine.
Your head has not rested on my chest,
I have not tasted your lips,
You have not heard my saccadic respiration.
You are no God, and I am no human.
Yet I wish to skip the introductions,
I wish for us to forego our respective sacrifices;
we may admit our mood and give in to the swing.
Jump from a rock to a water-lily,
On to the shore and back in the water.
This lake is ours, the river is ours; the trees.
My body is yours, your mind may lead,
and when it is time for you to retract,
May it be of a mutual entente.
Cascade of brown hair,
Going from the dark shade of tree bark at the the roots to the glistening moonshine of sunflowers at the tips.
Your navy blue sweatshirt and your white socks inside your white sneakers make you look like a cloud.
A cumulus of white steam supercharged with the scent of a thousand vines, and that tastes like sea water.
What I would give to doze off on top of you, my head resting between the twin peaks of your garden of eden.
Prime instance of self-control, your quietude, your calm, your stillness, is just a front.
What do you do, where do you go, who are you when you are elsewhere?
Could you take me there?
May you speak in my ears endlessly,
without expectation,
allowing yourself to take me fully,
picking me with two fingers and dropping me inside of your brain.
You need not my banal opinion or socially accepted comebacks.
I would give you my ears and nothing else,
If it were that I was allowed to tune into your breathing.
I would not speak a word,
enjoying to the fullest the entwined entity that our combined presence creates in silence.
I would listen,
and,
Oh! I just want to draw figures on your skin,
Feeling with the tip of my fingers every crevice,
every flaw,
and every curve.
I wish to hold you tight like a blanket made of water,
burying my nose in your neck and feeling the tickles of your hair like sun-warmed pollen in my nostrils.
You are indeed a god,
and I long, beg, dream and pray every day for your pardon, your mercy, and your unconditional love.
What could I possibly offer to a god?
Eighty kilograms of dead-weight in the form of flesh, muscle, and disappointment.
The love I offer is puny;
it is egoistic, simplistic and purely fantasy.
Have I even asked what you wish for?
"A thousand moments with you. The rest will be life,"
You answered.
I see you,
not shaking, twitching, blinking, stretching, scratching,
none of those.
An angel statue of marble with intricate, delicate veins in which the blood of your being gently flows.
I would lick the stone and drink the sap...
______________________________________________________________________________________________
A powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse,
Lost in foreplay we no longer care for the main course,
what would your verse be? If all you had was but a word, a thought to share,
If you had to choose between work and play,
living a life in monochrome because any other color palette is suddenly too much to bear.
How come out of nowhere,
Immense importance is given to the smallest of details,
In a life where players walk around starring at their feet?
Where has the genuine, shameless, human confusion gone?
Are we all lost in the image we've created?