Belle eve


This eve I have had a revelation of sorts

Amidst the nightly melancholia,

The longing for what I cannot have

And the reminiscence of what I did,

No one, surely, shall ever ask

But if one ever was to

Then I perhaps I would word my thought so:

My poems are akin to a perfume,

They feel just as the flowing wind

As brittle as thin ice on a leaf

And as rare as a blood rose

Blossoming aeons away on an asteroid,

As a frog in the foulest of streets

I hope from one to the other,

Trying to catch them before sleep

Trying to make them into eternal gems,

To stare again once I have awoken,

To touch again when day had risen

Or to keep warm in one of those nights

Where darkness drops a veil too thick…

I grab ever tentatively

Although never catch,

Never will I truly succeed,

I can watch all I want,

I can listen until all sounds fade,

I can copy, I can redo,

I can repeat, I can remake,

Never will it be the same.

And yet I try,

And yet I emulate,

Over and over and over and over again,

A madman in a sea of fire

Trying to swim to the shore

But sinking to the depth of this mischievous ocean,

Drifting to the furthest reaches of a wounded mind…

And yet I try,

And yet I hope,

Soon night will take me and it will be over,

Soon night will bathe me in its motherly cover.

I am as I hope, yet I expect to be elsewhere

Elsewho, elsewhen and perhaps even elsewhy…


Hope but do not expect,

Wish but do not wait,

For all is but subject

To its own hand of fate.

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