Breath of Naked Ashes
One sullen sunless sky is having its moment, leads the rush of a streak of light tracking down the fragility of flowery scenery. It wipes off beautiful jazzy garden, smashes the walls of polished cozy shelter, ripped off stylish apparels.
In ones’ birthday suit,
gasping for transience of all cosmetic presences,
the air is sucked out, for the price of forever.
it was they were, it is they are and perpetually it will be they will be
…breath of naked ashes.
Skipped Splattered Blank Pages
Absent eyes are amazed by beautiful acts,
of play which burns the surface of cocktail with expressive unfulfilled desire and hidden jealousy.
Drunk, drown, deeply sink into million of words,
revisiting some incomplete ones that might make this scenario so complete,
an escape space to be blamed for the never written present chapter,
to the section when ink ran dry as the sheets keep turning.
Skipped splattered blank pages.
No fire will burn them out.
No knife will tear them apart.
No life will walk on them anymore,
and the empties will always be as they were back there
: part of this manuscript.
Winter Storm of Summertime
…
For it was halted, an exhausted one is being forcefully rested down in this fragile shelter.
Warm heart is the only fire to shield, and shivering numbed life fights back for each dip of blood to travel in the body. The vessels are narrow, the flows are slowing. Deeper, the prolonged intense blizzards penetrate the outer tissues. It is shattered, it is breathing.
How long will it still last? How long can it still hold?
The windows start cracking…in this winter storm of summertime.
Whispers That Don’t Belong
…
As the sun rises up to brighten the day, its army of lights spreads the voices of joys. In the vacuum they sneak to the other side of many hollow walls, pass through shading curtain, friendly fill the room with rosy whispers.
In this room, by the window, peeking to the invitation, denying any resistances…
They warm an icy heart, flame frozen spirit. Touched by unreached ecstasy of seventh heaven, body liquid starts its buried flows, boils in the heat, ruptures out the vessel, spills over and explodes in tears, into the river of blood.
It is just not the place, it is just not the way, it is just not the time.
Blessed whoever befriend with them, but not inside here.
Surf In The Ocean of Time
S
…
Under the pull of the moon, the tide rises and falls.
Off balance, furious splashes of the surface to begin the cry for mercy, long for a breaker to stop the wave. This is another turn for impatient drag against a weary mortal body, which questions the holding slow in the past at the time the enthusiastic strength remained begging for fast rhythm dance.
Old lifetime persistence friend never listens.
Verily, the pace never really changes, but the regular discipline tick of the clock, a heartless force to move forward no matter earthly soul keep asking for the ground to stand, somewhere which seems never ever last and exist.
Forever will be, the surf in the ocean of time to nirvana.