From the stage he throws
his laughs, sea-rambles endlessly,
blows his clouds of dreams
along in the open sky.
In that moment he thinks nothingof loss or absence of love,
but lights a candle to walk down
the dark passage of his past
picking up orchestrated falls,
the audiences in the blind light
only screech in delight at
his slyly constructed follies.
- mrdes, 15 Nov 14
It doesn't have to end here. A poem is never finished. Yet a word here or there changes the world. Another world another poem; a poem may give birth to another. A poem is never finished. It has a tail long, or a shadow that stretches on and on. I'd rather drown myself in its longings. Forsaking time and space. Condensing myself in this little spot weightless, hence unburdened, without form or shape I don't have to be moulded into anything. I don't have to be anything. It is ironic that an insignificant body would sing about his insignificance as if it were the perfect, most beautiful harmony.