a multiverse existence,
where realities slip through
the hourglasses of time,
memory is a sweet drizzle,
originating from the clouds of conscience,
an atmosphere made of nostalgia,
and we are the floating planet.
the galaxies are unknown and untouched,
we bloom and wither in this cataclysm of life
but I recollect all this,
from a beautiful dream with eyes open,
so was it a deja vu?
or my hands just slipped of this typewriter.
Caress the playful waves,
breathe the snowflakes of this breeze,
stroll the unseen paths carelessly,
in the dreams within your dream,
Kiss the dying horizon,
feel the sand below your feet,
embrace the horses that once rode
the beaches,
just like your old memories
Besmirch the nightmares slowly,
wake up alone in these hallowed nights,
comfort all what is left within yourself,
feel this earth again without the lights
When it all comes back to you,
and I know it will,
write something beautiful about it,
let those waiting pages finally fill.
a deep abyss awaits,
with hues of blue and red above,
as the horizon devours the sun,
amidst the salt and sand,
a fisherman
melts into the stupor,
of this serenity toxified,
by smell of the exuberant waves
while the red sun,
slits the blue skies throat,
the fisherman dreams of drowning,
of kissing the waiting abyss,
of floating lifelessly,
in the ocean full of life,
he dreams to return to his friend,
to his father, to his deities,
just to be reborn again,
as a wave,
as a kraken,
as a breeze,
that never dies.
Romania to Mesopotamia,
through dusted lanes of Egypt,
to wet South American forests,
the shivering spines in Alps,
and eyes watching fireworks
on the lifeless new years,
in countless cities,
our wings were tied,
and sacrificed
in years to come,
on altars of reality and despair,
the pyromancy of ego,
burned them to beautiful ashes,
we transcended dreams,
our souls kissed the promised dreams,
left many untouched,
for existence with reverence,
to survive a reality.
now that very one dream
hides behind mirrors
and stars,
shivers under warmth of blankets,
sips finest whiskey,passing out in blur
it has changed us,
for better or worst,
sadly we can never judge,
ever.
In the state of remorse,
the howls shatter
glasses of nightly silences,
the white floating sphere
conjures the dead,
the living and
all things existing
in between,
near the window,
my breath now sighs my restlessness
and imprints it on the mirrors
of existence,
the dearth of materialism within,
tickles the soul
into a mocking laugh
that echoes in corners of sleeping valley,
maybe that is what,
requiem for a dream is,
and maybe that is why,
the wolves howl in moonlight.
Writings to Heaven 