The
poet knows what he is writing, yet he might not know what he wrote.
Backing
up time when it stood still, memories were vivid and real, slipped away into
the shadows where they belong, words of a lost mind.
Waltz
number 19 ringing in my mind, ‘Apart’ a haunting cure as I turn the light off
at night.
Tangled
is our beautiful mess, we look at each other in the reflection of yesterdays
actions.
Thin
strings of unworldly colors, brittle threads holding all together, not
breaking.
This will be, missed.
Will
I ever be one again with you? Slowly undoing the yarn as distance and time
seeps and dilutes what we had.
Knowing
her steps in the city, curious mind seeking solution to unimaginable thoughts,
the companion of her mind showing the way.
Racing
towards an end, the start never presented itself in it’s own full glory.
I am
my own enemy, realistic actions of a desperate dreamer walking a deep deathlike
solitude, macho bravado echoes in flight or fall.
Without
it nothing would be worth anything, at all.
So I kissed her right then right there
“Teasing out the
tangles.
Every knots are like "the
present" bound by the yesterdays.
Those inconsistent details are so
much like strict and honest daily
reports...of the moments, transition
of the emotions..” - She wrote…
Y.I twentyninthofjanuary
Ω
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