Will talk
When your mirror will hug the dusty fog,
when the grief will not set with the Sun.
when your moustache be grey
and crescent under the eyes darker.
When thirty trees will grow around you
and you'll be breathless running after the grandkids.
When the golden brooch will kiss the dust
more in the cupboard than on your suit.
When not being loved enough will crush your dinner-dates.
When birthdays be knife
and birthday songs the passing clouds.

We'll talk
When you'll be seventy.
I'd love to know
how the distance treated you.
We will talk then,
Did you live or just survived?

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You know how the storm comes and shakes you up without touching?

Your words do the same.— % &

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To let them be.

Let them be with me.
Let them fight for me.
Let them leave if they wish to.

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Comets, my favourite astro objects. Even more personal than a moon and the stars.
Lonely beings, trying to light up the path behind while they dive into the darkness.
Probably, trying to find someone as their own, in regular intervals. Incessantly!
And unfortunately, they just go through hell of a ride to come back home empty handed.

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Winter is nothing but Summer feeling 3am coldness.

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I have brought the sky.
Would you lend your Sun
for the rest of your life?

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Poems are butterflies.
Free it from your grasp
to come back.

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Love flows freely. Hate is fed.

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Push it open for me, will ya please?
It gets stuck at the edges.
The hands of the clock
and the sides bleed time.
A prisoner imprisoning others.
It's neon sticks
flaunting their dandy-ness
and a nude beak to
poke open the eyes.

Can I crack it open
to break the illusion?
How come the dead hands
spread horror into the living.
It all starts with
the screws, the hooks,
a hole in the wall
much like the living.
Something that doesn't
give it a right to dominate one.

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Your pocket has embers of future
I light at every attempt when you kiss me,
But the flare burns my hand
with the flashes of fire engulfing my world.

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