Saturday, February 28, 2009


I wake up and look at you, still asleep
The shine in your eyes no longer
But it's when we suddenly are younger
You wake up and run around the room
looking for her
She's alive, coming right behind you
To enfold you
Hold you and sparkle with love
And I finally conceive you

Is it our fault that life has never been the same
And things get lost to change as we're growing old?
Is it the last time we'll accept each other with the absence
that insists to be told?

You try so hard to reach me,
but no bridge stands between anymore
I'm old and cold and filled with
You're so young, but yet
so filled with sore
And the harder I try, the less I sympathize
with anyone's pain but my own
Sorry to keep you as a target
But we must realize our luck is running out
The cards were thrown

Is it our destiny to keep declining, descending
towards our holiday home away from happiness?
Are we still losing the watch we had on things
And life matters just as much as the rest?

I look at your face and can't hold inside me
that smile
Your beating little heart
There's a little bit of her here
The sea crushes out there, but inside
there's nothing to fear
but this breeze, that keeps us apart

Is it true you plan to die, slowly and hidden from all
To keep the surprise?
I wish you could just turn around, give it up and go forward
For we shouldn't reach her before
it really is the time
The roses didn't die, did they?
So won't we
(even though I wish I was gone every night I lay alone
on our bed)

It is time we decide to take care of you
and the little wars going on inside your head

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Excerpt - The Gospel According to Darkness

And a desperate rage is brought out of the ruins, through each and every cobweb of memory, against the deceased ones; rage which will only consume those in mourning until the final acceptance.

Father Luke

Monday, February 16, 2009

Preventive Measures

As he first entered the room, his eyes captured her image, lying on the hospital bed.
He thought immediately of a dying animal, like an old fox caught by some hungry lion
out in the woods.
It was too sad for him to bear, but he didn't shed a single tear that night.

He swallowed.

"I love you" were the words told as he left the place, holding her living hand
for the very last time.
His ultimate gift was her answer.
A weakened voice.

"Me too"

Nowadays hospitals at night, wide windows and narrow corridors are constantly avoided, as an efficient measure to prevent future disappointments.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

Liquid Thinking

If she was a glass of water,
she'd be about to fall and break in a thousand pieces
or to be drank empty by a bystander.
I just want to be there with her.

If only I could become a glass of milk or something,
I'd maybe get a glimpse of her feelings.
Or maybe not.
Who knows what crosses your mind
when you're a vessel
filled with some liquid?
Not blood or pus, but pure
crystalline water
or maybe pure white milk.
Who knows?

It's better, more comforting to believe
she'll remain fulfilled until I arrive
Until I'm thirsty of her love and attention once again
so she can be drank empty by my selfishness.

A glass of water, about to fall and break
into a thousand pieces of glass.
She's a puzzle yet to be solved.

Sunday, February 08, 2009


Snow-white socks, they slipped through his thin,
snow-white leg
The supreme outfit, it would fit any time
or occasion
Black socially acceptable shoes, and black,
clean social-friendly pants
'For the last time', he thought, as the tie
around snow-white neck fit just right.

Or he wish he had thought.


Electric is how things are perceived, at first sight.
He is driven, lost in many winding paths to follow,
not really sure of which way to turn at.
But, somehow, he will listen to a sweet beep
beep beep
right away to the horizon.

He will hear her calling, the final gathering.
(until found is the voice within)


On the bench.
Words were dripping to the floor by the bench,
away to anyone who cares to notice.
A little pool of words, meeting of thoughts,
and fingerprints of a chubby little girl.
She wishes she would curl up and wake up
as a butterfly, an artist
the magician at the bench.

She sings herself out.
(to whoever who cares to listen)


Everybody was singing happily
ever after the pain dissolved itself
There were questions too
But what is there now, the immediate still waits
for the answer
Is she still there, teaching the choir?

We will wait until before
the next concert.

Thursday, February 05, 2009


There was her absence,
In the chaos of each room, cluttered with clothes
there was her chaos, alone.
But some hope, like the curious bird
entering the room for shelter
in between the mess
just flies around, feathers shaking
to the wind
comfort shaking to the wind still blowing

In the air, traces of her love
still linger.

Tuesday, February 03, 2009


-need some more parallel lines (blondie)
-and ghosts (siobhán)


Sunday, February 01, 2009

The Pupil, pt. II (Narrow)

She was at the ending now
Missed out black and white screening,
but the colors didn't mess up the unique beauty
of her experience
Backed by a royal orchestra, which laughed
and greeted her aloud

In her heart still lived the pupil that couldn't get old
as it was by her own eyes told

She followed her own light, through a narrow corridor
Each voice and tone rehearsed as never before
While the public watched, astounded,
her final act
The symphony was now her own
as she kept it beside her, not to be alone
with a vow to keep alive the music as, just like her years before,
another pupil was born

Pictures and newspapers will agree
hundreds of years from then,
when every other fruit is fallen and trees are rotting
that night will never be forgotten.