8

On my way back, I encountered
A slightly different path.
It was not less travelled,
Nor underestimated,
And I knew not whereto it led.

Still I did not daunter;
I closed my eyes and laughed.
Instead of stone, I stepped on gravel,
Fear with joy now alternated
Of the path I would now tread.

So then I began to saunter
The very day my mind would fath.
The secrets I unravelled,
My thoughts at once levitated
Out of minutes time had shed.

Conversing Has Its Flaws...

I held on to a trap, interlaced my spirit with a nothingness. Possession never had been worse to taste, though my eyes returned now and then to that rough limit of our minds, logic... And though I've made my everything out of a small piece of cardboard, I held on tight to a trap, wishing it would be an exit. But no gap leads to light, for it goes down, down, until the down turns into up. Earth stands against my efforts too.

And though I'd like to pour you another cup of tea, I'm afraid we're out of sugar. Will you mind as much as I would?

I guess, or better yet, I know, that we are souls with a clear destination. But a road is a road, there are patches one needs to level before stepping onto them. Insane, yes, to think that one can tighten the strings of the instrument without ripping another's soul in three. But what are we without hope?
And what does hope do, after we're gone?

Forgive me, pray, if I seem to cry. Should I fetch the mint?

And if we gather what we see, then why should we stop halfway through? Can we reckon what we may not see, yet exists? For miracles take place with or without notice. Take it as a truth and you'll understand.
Sometimes the point one makes takes hold of everybody, yet apart from being so serious, blinding or ignorant, it has nothing to support the rules it induces. So instead of making, doing, participating, competing, winning our place among our lies, had we not better forget about ourselves?

Yes, it appears that the weather has changed. So quick, I dare say! Have you come here by coach? Then I shall have my own got ready for your leave. Only let me know when I've tired you enough.

And each of us has their place bedside, and the right to hope the challenges cure themselves... Why then do we sigh relieved when they fade? Is there no remorse whatsoever? That a greater height could have been touched with the tip of our fingers, has it no meaning alongside our cares? Think of the strength resulted from such efforts...

Yet I'm afraid I've been a terrible bore; should you want to go, I cannot keep you from doing so.

Then I bid you goodbye. You have been a lousy companion, but you shall never know that. After all, you are just a cat.

7

Five-faced story in square paperback
The history of masqueraded heritage
A symbolic fight between grey and white
Reddened smile, mighty promises
Nothing written, nothing read
Maybe there's time to listen
Even in laughter's charm
There's space for one
But may it be?

6

Your letters denatured into sounds,
I am sorry that I read them;
And while your hand sought refuge
Underneath the pen's brimstone,
I held on tight to what I saw
And hoped it was for me.

Now and then my heart still pounds
That you should seem a madman;
My rain was but your deluge,
My effort but your tiring loan -
I held on tight to what you saw
And hoped you'd still see me.

5

Reliable like a bench between oaks
Valiant as lips cast into the river
Losing their sound, lending it away
Torn by water, taking the present
With a cry, away, away, away;
Making room for translucid words
That will join other unhappy stones
Until the din has dried up,
Securing a long-lasting silence
Before a cry breaks it, sensitive
Like a earless shell.

4

Such delight, to bring them in.
I wonder yet what you've become;
You never liked gifts,
So why would you bother?
I should not let this second pass
Without your knowing that
I left the candles outside,
Last night's snowfall was unkind,
You know, to the flames;
But don't despair, I'll buy new ones.
Still I wonder, when will you learn
That 'you' is 'we' spelled backwards?
You only care about your sleep.
Don't bother, I slept well myself last night.
Hold your thoughts, I'll read your lips:
You want me to yield before you.
Very well.

3

I flowered his existence,
As he put it into words,
But why do people always love
to crush and destroy the mild?
His hand was bleeding green,
A gardener's legacy.
But I assured him,
I promised him so,
That I'd find him soon,
Should he leave.
For that hand would bring back the day
I had to trace down -
Today, when I ripped off his roots,
cut his wisdom from the stem
So we would start over,
Regain scents we'd let go of -
Change our colors,
Drink the petals out of love.

2

They were frightened;
Their book had a lousy page,
One they'd ruffle in their fists
draw white lines and
cast cold breaths upon and
then throw away and
hope that it would land...
safely
But then what book would that be
if it had no pages, but two covers?
Pageless books are frowned upon;
and drawn circles instead of spirals,
and cast fret upon, once it's worthwhile.
They asked, 'is that all? A page?'
'Our only page,' and they'd plead
But soon would find
That no life can dwell
upon such grounds, no plastic toy
can be so small.
So who would they be?