Alas, well…


This one is for the lost wherever they be found

This one is for the tossed from heavens to the ground

This one is a simple call to the better days

A bandage on the scar that has long not opened

It is as ominous to those who are threatened

As it is life-saving to the great fool that prays

There is little to be yet still less said than gone

This one is for those who seek the unseekable

And for all of those who sink the unthinkable

This is the legacy of all that has been done

By the poet, in truth, by their hand and their heart

Despite the gears of steel that revolve moon and sun

Around the earthy plain in attempts to outsmart

The reader and their no-good, very bad sense of fun…


♪ It’s made of teeny tiny nothings ♫



In the life-threads of Charlotte


On the roof of my old house,

Atop the rows of red tiles,

There lived a spider for a while.

It wasn’t quite big, nor small,

Just the right size, all in all,

It had eyes like the night sky

And strong legs shaped like eyebrows,

It could jump real mighty high

And it was as dark as crows.

Sometimes I would find art weaves

Made of the finest of silks

And of pearled water and leaves,

It tasted as sweet as milk

In the morning at sunrise;

During summer, the soft breeze

Would make the finer threads hum;

During winter it would freeze,

Break away under my thumb.

But when the next day awoke

To the warming sound of smoke,

The strange art would be reborn

Without anger, without scorn;

This had always been routine

From early childhood to teen,

So imagine my surprise

When on my great big birthday

No singing portrait shone down

For, much to my own dismay,

The roof spider and her gown

Had left long before morn dowse…


Many years later,

I have heard say that my old friend, after moving from roof to roof,

had found one of her own.


Very proudly written with a heart beating to the sound of this small wonder:

Through an icy eye I see the sea.


Not quite a harsh pain this firework of the chest,

Although the myriad of colour cannot be seen

The melody echoes throughout the silent space.

Rows upon rows of madness-in-a-box

Where void fills void during the long twilight,

Industrial and forgettable instantaneity –

Fingers upon a chalkboard and bleeding nails.

Somewhere, somewhen, an Asphodelian wails

But it does not move the heart of such a deity;

Look! there comes the rest in a queer half-flight,

Eyes aflame or stolen by the wicked Nox,

There is this eerie gash in their romantic pace

As they seek but may never truly convene;

Ruby and silver and gold weigh nothing to those who rest.


Sigrid – High Five

Who am I?


I take what is full and give back emptiness,

I give out what is warm and take back the cold,

Some follow me, some chase me,

To the ends of the world and back,

Others flee at my sight, some weep

And some cry, some laugh

And some try to capture me

But as the golden cage around the young bird

It is they who are trapped,

And though they know nothing of it

They still despair.

I give all that is mine, yet always reclaim it,

I ferry the lost souls along this harsh journey

Yet reap the ripened fruits with silky fingers

Until the lands are barren

And only salted rivers are left.

Always away, always there,

I am Life, I am Death, I am War, I am Time,

Never far, never near,

I am many-faced, I am almighty,

Though yet I am feeble as an old woman

And all that look at me know who I am,

Sometimes perhaps, but surely ever,

I am Space, I am Love, I am True, I am More,

Very indeed, or whatever in-between,

I am; and there you are.


The answer you seek, you will find it in the question you ask.

PWE – 1.1

The morning fog was still densely packed over the city when Hector walked out into the backyard of the house. Or, more accurately, the patch of barren land that made do as a backyard which he had bought along with the small and plain three-roomed habitation that was his home at the moment. He had bought it from a poor old woman who had decided to go live in the inner rings of the city after the death of her husband. The hovel, for it had been more a hovel than a real house, as it barely seemed to be able to protect anything from the harsh winter weathers, had not been ideal, but having a place to call home was a luxury to many so he had not shunned this opportunity. A few weeks of hard work had sufficed to turn it into a cozy enough place to live comfortably, if he could call his life comfortable. At least he had a roof to sleep under and a job to provide enough to eat and to live better than most, if not well, and on top of that he managed to save some of his earnings. It would take years at the rate it was going, but if all went well he would one day achieve his dream: owning an inn.

For now though he was still a simple field worker, tending to the lands of richer men than he. He sighed at the thought and began his daily routine, stretching out his limbs to wake his body up from the grogginess of sleep. The air was humid and fresh but not cold, the small patches of grass in what he called his garden were pearled with water and he could feel the soft earth bend slightly under his feet. The sun had barely risen over the horizon, not that he could see it anyway through the dense misty air, which meant he still had a full hour before it was time to go. He groaned sleepily as he switched position and bent his limbs in ways most people could not. He maintained his flexibility by exercising each morning, all in the hopes of retaining as much of his physical abilities in his old age. He was barely thirty one but people did not tend to live very long in his world, rarely more than twice as old, and when one did, most of the time it was not a pretty sight.

Half an hour passed as Hector moved his limbs slowly but deftly and with intent and purpose. Extending his muscles, warming his joints, controlling his breath and calming his mind. He liked feeling every little part of his flesh and bones tingling as he finished his exercise, it made him feel alive. As he opened his eyes again he noticed two things: the first one was that the fog had begun dissipating, letting him almost see the blue of the sky, the second one was a faint shadow in the distance and a soft groan he almost swore was his imagination. But he could see it, small and stumbling, it seemed to move in his direction. He immediately tensed, cursing in his short but dense brown beard. At least it didn’t seem to be a beast, Lum knew what dangerous and ferocious beasts roamed at the edge of the outer ring! That was part of the reason he had gotten the house for such a cheap price. It had the shape of a human being, a child even, but he wasn’t so foolish he would trust what he saw, he had heard enough to know it was never good to be careless. He swiftly grabbed his axe and stood his ground as he waited for the unknown being to approach, each footstep barely echoing on the soft ground.

But it never came. Instead, as it seemed to be about to walk out of the mist, he heard a thud. He blinked to focus and realized the shadow had disappeared. Cursing again, louder this time, he took a step back while looking around and was about to walk inside when he heard another soft groan from the direction he had seen the silhouette. He hesitated. Damn it! You stupid idiot!, he chastised himself as remembered the fundamental law of the wild: never hesitate. Act or don’t, but never, ever linger. Lingering meant pain, or worse, death… He took in a deep breath and decided. He took a tentative step forward, looking around him for any sign of danger and hardened his grip on the wooden handle. Seeing no immediate threat he took another one, and another. It was slow but finally he reached the place where he had last seen the silhouette and gasped as he saw a young child, no more than nine or ten, lying face first on the patch of grass.

Sic transit gloria mundi


Sous un pont de pierre noire

Arquebouté vers les cieux

Étincelle un vivant miroir

D’un oeil quoique vif et malicieux,

Caché dans ses belles entrailles

Un vieil esprit se meut parmi les flots

Et dépose sur le vitrail

A l’azur nacré, son blanc halo –

La charrue des ans trace son chemin

Et la pierre s’effrite à chaque demain,

Pourtant l’ouvrage millénaire

Dans un galant et lent élan

Courbe l’échine sous la masse

De la poix imaginaire

Sans arrêt exhalant

Ses douces-heureuses amours contumaces

Mais, tel même que le roseau de la fable,

Il ne rompt point –

Nul ne prétend savoir avec certitude

Mais d’aucuns disent qu’il fut oint

Jadis d’eau sacrée et de rais célestes,

Et que depuis, de son infinie altitude,

Le fier astre en atteste.


Gare au troll qui y vit…

PWE – 0 – The Fog

The whiteness was bright. Silent and bright. And yet it seemed as if his mind was surrounded by ink black darkness and noises so loud they would shatter his sanity any second now. It was one, then the other, one and the other, bright and dark, bright or dark, noisy or silent, noisy and silent… It was impossible to define, all at once and yet nothing at all, at the same time and alternatively. As if the rules of reality had been completely thrown away and had been randomly replaced. The strangest thing was the feeling it procured. It wasn’t one of fear or loss, he wasn’t afraid, he wasn’t happy, he wasn’t anything actually… He was… content…? He? It couldn’t even know if it was a he anymore, it didn’t know anything, all it was was content, inside and out. It always had been and always would be, forever. Forever. That was a long time, a very long time. And yet it felt as if it had passed in the time it took it to formulate this thought. An eternity. A second. No difference, all the same in the face of the whiteness.

It moved. Strange. How could it know it had moved? And yet, it had felt itself stir. Something that had not been part of its reality for a long time… Or had it ever been part of its reality? It couldn’t say… And yet it stirred, again. A thought popped in its mind. A thought? How? Sound. There was a sound. Not the silence, not the noise, something else. A distinct sound. What it was, he could not say. No, wait… it? He? It was confused. How… Why… Slowly, ever so slowly, thoughts seemed to pop back into his mind. One by one, an eternity at a time. Back? Why back? Why not just pop? What had happened before? Before what? What was now? What was then? White. Now was white. But before… before was not white? It couldn’t say. Something was happening but it couldn’t say what, it was still far too sleepy, far to content in this whiteness to even try to stir again. It stopped doing whatever it was and waited again, content. And again it stirred. Stronger this time and from a place he couldn’t say. He? Again? Why? The noise happened once more, that strange noise it had heard earlier. What was going on?

Then everything accelerated. Stir, content, noise, content, feel, hear, content, think, remember, content, colour, move, fear, content, music, happy, hungry, world, big, content, tears, crying, laughing, hot, fire, why, content, white, black, eat, run, fly, wonder, magic, content, ask, stir, smell, taste, love, life… Colours were flying everywhere, merging into themselves, the whiteness had been taken over, content wasn’t the only one anymore, there were so many others. Others what? He couldn’t say. He? Yes, he, not it. So many others and only one him. Only one him but made of all the others. How? Why? Questions were bustling in his mind as the whiteness and the silence around his merged with the others, colours, sounds, smells, memories, feelings, things! All at once and yet over the course of another eternity. How could he tell how long an eternity was? The drum. It beat twice every eternity. Loud and proud. It beat and it never stopped. He couldn’t understand what was happening and yet it all seemed to make sense somehow and it made him stir again, more this time. He stirred again and again, slowly but surely. Everything seemed to accelerate and become louder and more vivid, it span faster and faster to the point he couldn’t even tell anything apart from itself. He couldn’t even see the colours, not even hear the sound, not even feel the feeling or remember the memories…

And then it went black. And white again. At the same time. And or. Or and. It happened all at once and over the course of many eternities. That’s when it came. The one he knew would come and had been beginning to fear as he expected it. The never. It came all proud and slow, like a king. It came and gently took his hand and smiled down to him before spreading its wings and flying off, dragging him in tow. He felt no wind, heard no bird, saw no sun, just content. Once more, all was content. White…

The beginning of a new story, maybe…

To kill a mockingbird


A bullet to the head

Might be the easy way,

A dagger to the heart

Would test your sanity,

As they lie on the bed

And in your hands held sway

Complete and true as art,

Blossoms a vanity

Never quite before felt

Or surely never thought,

A firm hand to the throat

Or this forsaken belt

Tied in a swift, firm knot –

One last ironic note –

The paths ahead are score

And their ways still wilder,

Yet only one, no more,

May reach the Great Builder;

A good rope to the feet

Could drag them to their meet…


No pithy for the pain whirl.



Molten glass becomes a heart

If breathed into carefully,

Hope wakes it up with a start

For the whole world to discover;

Molten heart becomes aglass

Waiting to be filled with folly,

What should think then the young lass

Of the promised grand lover?

Every beat into pieces

Lay shattered on the ground,

Neither shall know what peace is

Until they recognize the sound

Of what has yet to be broken –

Within the vale truth lies spoken.


They shall bite or be bitten, they shall smite or be smitten, they shall write or be written.

Entre vous et moi


ça va, ça vient,

c’est fait de tout

et de tout petits riens,

la où la clé est passe partout;

il fait si froid dehors,

l’hiver semble installé,

ou bien est-ce mon corps

qui devient cheminée ?

je sens le feu brûler

dans ce profond bassin,

les bûches se consument,

crépitant toutes en chœur,

et le grand feu qu’allume

à tort, ou a dessein,

l’index dissimulé

me promet sa liqueur –

car si l’accord majeur

est formulé en soupir

par des lèvres enfiévrées,

tes mots sont bien songeurs

et lorsque tu respires

je te sens enivrée

par toute la douceur

que je peux délivrer

des chaînes de tissus

que chers ont recouvré;

suis-je un bon danseur ?

car de nous est issu

ce bon et franc parler,

de ces incantations

mille fois répétées

des océans perlés

d’îles aux frais vergers

naissent sans s’arrêter

et j’y vois, reflétées,

passions et tentations

en myriades de coloris

mûrir sous la main du berger…

pour un, pour deux,

pour trois, pour cent,

pour tous, pour eux,

avec ou sans,

je les vois qui chantent et rient

et gardent précieusement ce toit

également pour vous émois.


Tout à fait.