you are my sleepless nights,
my never –ending thoughts.
you are my fears, my hopes,
fresh breath of air.
you are my life.
I’m standing at the Edge,
I spread my wings….
the Northern wind caresses my face…
am I to fall?
am I to fly?
am I to live?
am I to die?
Friday, July 22, 2011
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
letters (true enemy)
Time...
Lately it has wrapped me
in a tight, sticky, milky white cocoon
and hung me somewhere between life and death,
between hell and heaven.
It patiently waits
when a butterfly will chew its way out,
just to devour her.
Time has never been a friend.
But when I got captured and stalled…
Time is my true enemy now!
Lately it has wrapped me
in a tight, sticky, milky white cocoon
and hung me somewhere between life and death,
between hell and heaven.
It patiently waits
when a butterfly will chew its way out,
just to devour her.
Time has never been a friend.
But when I got captured and stalled…
Time is my true enemy now!
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Fragments (being me)
how does victory smell?
it is stinks:
the stench of a burning flesh,
the nauseating smell of spilled blood,
the damp smell of the dark prison,
where the soul is locked.
if I would have faith in my heart,
I would ask for forgiveness.
other than that,
I like the smell of victory.
it is stinks:
the stench of a burning flesh,
the nauseating smell of spilled blood,
the damp smell of the dark prison,
where the soul is locked.
if I would have faith in my heart,
I would ask for forgiveness.
other than that,
I like the smell of victory.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
letters (last steps)
nameless, breathless, imprisoned
…I flow-by.
barb-wire curls around heartbeats.
a sweet bitterness embraces darkness.
these last steps
into unknown
…minefields.
…I flow-by.
barb-wire curls around heartbeats.
a sweet bitterness embraces darkness.
these last steps
into unknown
…minefields.
Friday, July 15, 2011
fragments (just a thought)
the tight coil of the time loop
is about to snap.
the stars are ready
to drift apart
into oblivion,
collide
and demolish themselves
into galactic dust,
ripping real and imagined
into nothingness
until the Last,
unpaired and unattached
would remain.
the Last one:
invisible, formless and nameless,
a silent witness
of the past glories and dismays,
…perhaps just a thought,
frozen
and curled in the circle
of repetition,
doomed into eternity
when time will perish
like a puff of smoke.
is about to snap.
the stars are ready
to drift apart
into oblivion,
collide
and demolish themselves
into galactic dust,
ripping real and imagined
into nothingness
until the Last,
unpaired and unattached
would remain.
the Last one:
invisible, formless and nameless,
a silent witness
of the past glories and dismays,
…perhaps just a thought,
frozen
and curled in the circle
of repetition,
doomed into eternity
when time will perish
like a puff of smoke.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
letters (prose of my life)
prose of my life.
I
the other day, on my way out of the book store,
a man in his serious age held the door open for me
while I was walking through the double door and a hallway.
the moment was somehow awkward to be casual.
we made an eye contact and I thanked him.
he told me back that I had made his day
just being there… and he would have stayed
a whole day by that door just to keep it open for me.
it was a nice one
and I had granted him one of my most enchanting smiles.
II
and I had remembered them all:
some of them wanted to buy,
others pleaded, cried, begged and tried
to warm my heart with the promise of suicide,
the smart ones run away instantly,
the choice that marches before my name.
a few attempted to bully their way trough,
but as soon as I hissed, all disappeared,
there was no brave one to stay.
and when I had thrown a bolt of lightning or a few,
no one attempted to cross the bare lands for years…
III
… I am standing alone.
my eyes drown into the sunset.
…live entangled hopelessly in time
like a dying fly in a spider web.
I have missed You,
one who knows
where is the line
that separates right and wrong,
fear and bravery, love and hate,
one who can stand in the middle of opposites
with a smile
and hold the door open,
for me to be born into this world,
one who can open his arms
and embrace
all that I am…
I
the other day, on my way out of the book store,
a man in his serious age held the door open for me
while I was walking through the double door and a hallway.
the moment was somehow awkward to be casual.
we made an eye contact and I thanked him.
he told me back that I had made his day
just being there… and he would have stayed
a whole day by that door just to keep it open for me.
it was a nice one
and I had granted him one of my most enchanting smiles.
II
and I had remembered them all:
some of them wanted to buy,
others pleaded, cried, begged and tried
to warm my heart with the promise of suicide,
the smart ones run away instantly,
the choice that marches before my name.
a few attempted to bully their way trough,
but as soon as I hissed, all disappeared,
there was no brave one to stay.
and when I had thrown a bolt of lightning or a few,
no one attempted to cross the bare lands for years…
III
… I am standing alone.
my eyes drown into the sunset.
…live entangled hopelessly in time
like a dying fly in a spider web.
I have missed You,
one who knows
where is the line
that separates right and wrong,
fear and bravery, love and hate,
one who can stand in the middle of opposites
with a smile
and hold the door open,
for me to be born into this world,
one who can open his arms
and embrace
all that I am…
Friday, July 8, 2011
fragments (one day in the woods) part II
He made a note to self that they were strangers from the fearful look on her face and somehow guarding posture as she sprung to her feet when she noticed the man. They were too far away for George to hear the conversation but small bits of it reached his ears. She repeated several times “no” with her head moving accordingly. He overheard the name “Laura” and George decided that it was her name. The man talked convincingly when she disagreed, George understood it from her head moving side to side, saying no, and her hands, now on her chest, crisscrossed and palms to her shoulders. After a few long minutes of debates she gave up, she drank the water, he offered, put her shoes on, holding on to his arm and they started walking in the direction where the man came from.
George felt a relief and was ready to walk into his way, but a sudden thought struck him still, what if that would be his daughter walking in the woods with a stranger, what would he do? He would give everything away just to be there for her. And he started following them in the distance. It was not too difficult, even so they did not talk, but they walked loudly. They were following a trail and shortly they reached the road with a few cars parked at the site. It was Saturday and there were a people who run into the sanctuary of the woods from their daily life in the city.
Laura and a man got into a white Volvo that was parked with its back to the trail and a license plate perfectly visible for George, equipped with his binoculars. He pulled out a pen and little notebook from the left pocked of his jacket and scribbled the number of the plate, double checked it and buried the notebook back into his pocket.
As the car took off, the first drops of rain were rustling in the bushes, as they touched George’s face, he got startled.
The rumbling sound behind his back, somewhere close, reminded him of thunder, and he thought it was strange, it was off season…
He opened his eyes wide, realizing that he was sitting in the same place where he dozed off. And at the same time, just a few minutes ago, he knew, he followed a woman, by the name of Laura that took off with a stranger. He had a horrible headache, he felt as if his head was split in two, right in the middle, splitting his reality, which were both real in his mind but his logic whispered somewhere from afar that it was impossible and he has to choose one over another. Two blurry pictures tried to impose onto each other, but it did not offer any clarity, on the contrary, it made George’s thoughts blurrier then before.
It started to rain and he dismissed the strangeness as a vivid dream. He pulled his raincoat out, put it on, collected his belongings and started to walk down the hill toward his car.
His dream echoed in his head, bouncing in every direction like madness in its prime. Scared of his next action he reached into his pocked for the notebook, and… it was not there. He found only the pencil. His rifle and back pack slid down to the ground, he stood there without a thought, like a neighboring tree. The plate number was fresh in his memory. He rolled his sleeve high up, and wrote the number again …twice, then he mentally cancelled all his previous plans and arrangements for tomorrow and perhaps for tonight. He imagined how angry Martha would be, but it did not matter anymore…
He put the pen back into his pocket, rolled the sleeve carefully over his scribbling, protecting the information inked over his skin that was also tattooed over his brain, stored in all kinds of memories: short, long, strange, just name it, and did not need any protection. And he briskly walked to his car. The rain was not rustling anymore, but was roaring like an angry beast, overwhelming all the gentle sounds of the forest. The forest stayed quiet and helpless. George got soaked to his bones in no time and he did not notice that or did not give any significance to it. He was walking steady, immersed in his thoughts while drops of rain were collecting over his soaked clothes, which were not absorbing anymore water, and were forming small streams that were rolling down his body. If anyone would see George at that time, they would think that the Rain Man stepped out of the dark cloud and was hunting the woods.
George felt a relief and was ready to walk into his way, but a sudden thought struck him still, what if that would be his daughter walking in the woods with a stranger, what would he do? He would give everything away just to be there for her. And he started following them in the distance. It was not too difficult, even so they did not talk, but they walked loudly. They were following a trail and shortly they reached the road with a few cars parked at the site. It was Saturday and there were a people who run into the sanctuary of the woods from their daily life in the city.
Laura and a man got into a white Volvo that was parked with its back to the trail and a license plate perfectly visible for George, equipped with his binoculars. He pulled out a pen and little notebook from the left pocked of his jacket and scribbled the number of the plate, double checked it and buried the notebook back into his pocket.
As the car took off, the first drops of rain were rustling in the bushes, as they touched George’s face, he got startled.
The rumbling sound behind his back, somewhere close, reminded him of thunder, and he thought it was strange, it was off season…
He opened his eyes wide, realizing that he was sitting in the same place where he dozed off. And at the same time, just a few minutes ago, he knew, he followed a woman, by the name of Laura that took off with a stranger. He had a horrible headache, he felt as if his head was split in two, right in the middle, splitting his reality, which were both real in his mind but his logic whispered somewhere from afar that it was impossible and he has to choose one over another. Two blurry pictures tried to impose onto each other, but it did not offer any clarity, on the contrary, it made George’s thoughts blurrier then before.
It started to rain and he dismissed the strangeness as a vivid dream. He pulled his raincoat out, put it on, collected his belongings and started to walk down the hill toward his car.
His dream echoed in his head, bouncing in every direction like madness in its prime. Scared of his next action he reached into his pocked for the notebook, and… it was not there. He found only the pencil. His rifle and back pack slid down to the ground, he stood there without a thought, like a neighboring tree. The plate number was fresh in his memory. He rolled his sleeve high up, and wrote the number again …twice, then he mentally cancelled all his previous plans and arrangements for tomorrow and perhaps for tonight. He imagined how angry Martha would be, but it did not matter anymore…
He put the pen back into his pocket, rolled the sleeve carefully over his scribbling, protecting the information inked over his skin that was also tattooed over his brain, stored in all kinds of memories: short, long, strange, just name it, and did not need any protection. And he briskly walked to his car. The rain was not rustling anymore, but was roaring like an angry beast, overwhelming all the gentle sounds of the forest. The forest stayed quiet and helpless. George got soaked to his bones in no time and he did not notice that or did not give any significance to it. He was walking steady, immersed in his thoughts while drops of rain were collecting over his soaked clothes, which were not absorbing anymore water, and were forming small streams that were rolling down his body. If anyone would see George at that time, they would think that the Rain Man stepped out of the dark cloud and was hunting the woods.
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