I will not write a poem. Unless the poem scribbles itself, I stubbornly stand for the prose unleashed from the uncried tears of a child, unborn yet ready to exist. A child who sees injustice, who fails to understand the lies unless a story’s on the stage, a different one than the reality of life.
We close ourselves inside between our selves we’re locking up behind the mirrors the most beautiful flowers in the world we lock lest anyone should see our sensuous frailty, the red of our velvet deep inside, the fascinating sparkle of the black into the core cut through by one thought only so jealous, oh, from
I cannot find a poetry of words to paint this spring’s today. I leave this to a better day or night of stars or waves of light, I leave it in my inner sight. I only wonder if today you have been visiting the skies, the trees, the lake, the breeze, in your untouchable disguise.
Between the wor(l)ds A life between the worlds (my-world, I-world, your-world) between the shadows of the words (an ongoing process, the process of going on) in a quest for a reality of beauty and of joy (serenity of love, love of serenity) we found our pulse beaming that white and golden light (over all
Christ-mas(s) became a time of celebration all over the world. Whatever religion, whatever cultural or ethnical roots, no matter what continent, this time of the year is dedicated to happiness, to love and care, to the joy of being Humans . People want to please their dear ones, want to surprise them with nice and