Of Words and Other Dilemmas

I stood plain, volatile and invisible.

Dead in motion, free in the depth of her spoken silence,

for the land is quiet and infinite when the moon rises

and so nothing is ever full of tone; full of meaning.

She conquered it all in inquisitional whispers, 

she hid, patiently, protected in crenelations,

protected in words, sheltered in their empty aegis,

shielded in their capacity for exploration.

Hereon, the cannons of self-indulgence

foray upon all that it is mistaken, all that is expressed,

so expressed through dusty bifurcations,

and so expressed in the cadence of an insipid sound.

She conceived a definition for the undefined

and the true miracle deteriorated,

the bliss faded away, sheer beauty was now shattered;

your eyes were now mere logic.

Therefore the paper doves flutter at a distance,

a dispute of tone in the garden of light.

The death and resurrection of perception

upon the imminent conquest of the night.

The moment is defined in grains of solitude,

the moment is what it shall be

and what it shall be only; 

an enfilade of fortuitous details, a cluster of dreams.

I seal the light and finally, in cold illusions, I imagine my own night. 

We see them kiss in subtleties,

through windows they interact, for the moment

will long what is necessary, in deaf request and imminent charge.

Letter to Her

And so he muttered, between a prolonged sigh and a swift smirk, 

"the heroes we once knew, now ramble in extinction."

The guiding line, so gray and distant, is nimble in defeat,

poor in verve and large in comfort; yonder it remains, away from guilt.

Therefore, after such prevailing kiss, I find myself disarmed;

no symbol was ever so full and unsure, and blessed in fury.

It is the faith of the universe, full of consequence and reaction,

mirroring its antithesis, whispering the truth.

I find you ubiquitous but intermittent,

like the sun when it parades off the sky, 

away from the shores of the night, but for the night,

like Pythias, when he left only to come back.

Therefore, after your pondering gesture, I find myself lost;

the trees are now green and infallible; vibrant in ostentation.

The crowd is the jungle, but that jungle is not my land,

I'll wait for your words, I know they will arrive in time.

Our past belongs to the labyrinths of the night,

our truce was written in silence and without our hands,

thus it is our lips that plow through the tides,

into the unfathomed waters and across the prairies covering the land.

The Five Seasons

Let the petal bloom

in fascination, in drawing charms;

maturing on time and without rush,

irreparably glorious amidst dry gloom and stripped arms.

Lush contours in full nights,

toboggans falling from the cornice of the sky.

 Your lips like water melting in crimson dye,

foray into my devoted sigh and never, never, never die.

Let the petal bloom,

let it implode in wild coquetry; 

a paradox of emerald prairies,

an alchemy of crude volumes.

The welcoming palm awaits patiently,

the petal weights like the standing air,

invisible to the senses and foreign in nature.

The end arrives, and at last, we had the will to move on.

Let the petal bloom,

in deluges of change and warm inconsistence;

a palette of infinite tones,

an enterprise of opposition.

Let the freezing death conquer it all,

a storm of mute elegance and white winds.

Your lips like gliding snow perforate my pores,

puissant and delicate like pale gossamer.