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Thursday, 20 July 2017

Poem: Gap between the breaths


whoever will get to taste my bones
and discover my highway full of secrets
there is an everlasting light which haunts me
in dreams I disappear completely to a place
where starlight kisses the sky
it ignites my skin for it knows my voice
stories wrapped in melody
in the gap between the breaths
songs are like bells calling us home
we ask ourselves hard questions
looking for answers our whole lives
in this wretched sea of denial
passion leads words to freedom
I am the ocean, a river of thoughts
flowing through the flesh
there are rooms with different versions
of our selves, various landscapes
through which we fought on our adventures
memories are like creatures
sneaking up on you in the middle of a sentence
the ones you feed, will gladly come back for more
and change their shape to fit in
others, they fade to black
sitting in silence until forgotten
unless they scheme to fill the melody
in the gap between the breaths
*

Poem: Oblivion

wind forgot how to roam
dust soundlessly covers up the valley
where we dig to discover our secrets
we've been hiding for ages
obsessed with putting cages
on things we can't control
hiding them somewhere safe
or so they keep on telling us
but do we ever see
we're the ones being caged too
so profoundly, keeping our selves busy
in our important lives
hungry for food and entertainment
seemingly never having enough
denying the meaning of the word
blinded by the glitter
breathing the constant high
abused as long as we have something to sell
running the machine we can't stop
living in our hypnosis, deciding
what is real and what is not
what is right and what is not
time passes, yet we don't look up
to face the monster
world doesn't care for your dreams,
hopes and sorrows, only for the symmetry
between your bones and how young
your skin appears to be
in this oblivion we fall
into the realm of the forgotten
our lives but a deck of cards
caught in a spiders' web
life drips from us,
like an i.v. infusion
. . .

*
Once I thought it would be possible to publish a poetry collection every three years. It's been three years since my last one. This is the third poem I've written this year. So you see where this is going. Maybe sometime in the future, but there's no deadline. Someday.

Monday, 27 March 2017

Poem: Roots

Photos borrowed from StockSnap and Unsplash

mountains float like clouds in the distance
their existence seems timeless like the sky
the shadows that play on us,
trying to show us the light
captured we are in this vast sea of possibilities
caged we are in this modern society, losing value
trying to fit into a shape that is not us
calling out to others,
but forgetting our names
the corridors that we walk through
waves either heal or cut us,
water drips through
drips even through stone,
river is running dry
are we untouched by what life is?
the cold sweeps into our blood
as our roots keep on burning,
but we don't seem to see
the smoke that is rising
our souls tired, tired of walking in these shoes
who can still hear a howl?
people talk endlessly, but seldom listen
in love with their own words and voices
blind we become, as if these tears turn into ice
in the winter of our lives we'll lose everything we once knew
maybe even lose our minds, in which a ghost would
haunt those few memories that we cling to
a wolf searching for a path of old
*

Saturday, 14 January 2017

Poem: Fever dreams


As the blackness of ink soaks through the snow white pages
so does the breathing get harder and the heartbeat races
as you fight your ghosts in the shadow tunnels
making sense of your fever dreams
revelation always follows after the moment
you want to surrender and stare into the abyss
it takes years for us to develop strong spines
first we develop fragile cells and flesh, bones we create much later
we lose our shape living in the modern world
we've forgotten and destroyed most of ancient wisdom
there are many hard battles we fight
inside of ourselves and by ourselves
for we've never learned trust
and helping others is under-rated
we weren't born to this earth to walk it alone
sometimes it seems we talk endlessly, but fail to say a thing
we rather keep it locked up,
either we find the right path or we get lost,
hearts have the knowledge of healing,
but the mind remembers and lingers to details
since it is the fiercest critique
can you still distinguish real from fake?
can you still tell who is the writer of your life?
is time taking our dreams away?
*