.

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…

.

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Hope but do not expect,

Wish but do not wait,

For all is but subject

To its own hand of fate.