Hang on

I’m close to reach emptiness` dry-lands and closed
To all what my pithiness mutters… supposed…

A business as usual, selling a tightness of rope
For shortness of kindness and paleness of hope.

Blueprints of transaction expressed on the lips
For swinging the body is crafting a crib.

Two beams, two ideas crisscrossed, point’s stiff,
Eclipsing own breath and igniting a riff.

When timeless librettos play silence and squeeze
My land’s getting drier and lumpier knees.

Still slipping away from debates and saccades
I ran out of petals, of pulling the odds.

And lighter than swinging and brighter than soul
The poetry tautness gives birth to a foal.

Be ready, existence, to feed it and comb,
To tight “roam” with “foaming” and “loaming” with “home”.

Who’s coward, who’s brave one when heavens too thin?
The corps’ decoration – the way to chagrin,

To blame past for future and future for lack
Of vibrant commotion and fading to black.

There’s nothing as vivid as darkness in eyes
till mimics meet Death and become mimicries.

24 August 2010

(this is just thoughts
and they are nothing more...
and have nothing to do with my current state of mind)