Ad rift


What is empty becomes full,

Even silence, now crowded,

Even the stars when clouded,

Cannot take me from the pull

Of this song over my soul,

I have fought year upon year

Bravely, but a blinded fool,

Unable to see past fear;

Now I know the melody,

Both its tempo and its tune,

Now I play this threnody

From the heights of this red dune.


“Distance is but a number when the mind and heart aligns.”


A story untrue


The ghost of a woman waves at me from the shore,

She is old, wind-worn, but her smiles illuminate

The wrinkles of her eyes that had long seemed innate,

It twinkles in those skies and it will evermore.

The dirty sand beaches are flowing in her hair

The salty marines echo off her sun-kissed skin,

Oh how the breeze is warm when released in the air,

And even when it rains tis tropical chagrin.

She is the sea lady, promised to the ocean,

Forever forbidden to touch her companion,

They stare at each other, in search of the fanion,

Symbol of their union and of their devotion.

Whether in calm or storm, from the first light of dawn

And beyond that of dusk, if you look carefully,

When all noise has scattered and all the ships are gone

You will find her standing on the rocks, gracefully.

The song she sings is sad, it is one of a frown

Full of melancholy, beautiful bittersweet,

Though beware of the tears for they will dance your feet

And you will join the rest round the white ocean crown.


The sea proves to be a recurring theme for me. Also, this is partly dedicated to L.



Qu’est long le détour de ces quelques lignes

Tracées par mon doigt à l’ancre de sens,

Sanglantes tâches de vin, cœur décent;

Qu’est douloureux l’acte de rester digne

Alors même que le monde s’effondre

Autour de réalités alternées,

Autant de douces icônes mal ternies

Tel neige chaude refusant de fondre;

Nombreux les esprits voyant le tryptique

De ces sons, des sens et de l’intention

Comme une si mystérieuse invention

Que les sourds messages en restent cryptiques;

Au delà de l’obscure sémantique

Pourtant, la transparence de mes maux

Fait écho l’apparence de mes mots,

Car, vraiment, je ne suis qu’un romantique

Qui dore ses fines lettres de plomb,

Fuyant la transparence de son âme

Dont jadis Damoclès perçut la lame,

Par peur, par faiblesse et manque d’aplomb.


La poétique des mots est mon seul courage,

Mon épée, mon bouclier, ainsi que ma rage.

The book


Sometimes, when all the light of the world has run away,

When even the emerald lantern seen from another distant peer

Fails to reignite the spark atop the great lighthouse,

Sometimes, when even the most adequate song

Is unable to carry this purposeless soul

Over to the world of apple pies and wrinkled smiles,

Sometimes, in the rare and precious instants – yet lost forever –

When all other question has met with its answer

And when all possible solutions have not a single problem,

Sometimes, in-between one of those peculiar half smiles

When he feels paralyzed by the movement of each atom,

When white noise and silence both sing a capella,

Sometimes, in those moments of unknown violence

When unending freedom is forged into rusted chains,

And the old shadows have stopped dancing against the walls,

Sometimes, in those moments, then, he opens the book…


Sometimes, times some.

Also, feedback? Would be nice! ;)

Witness My Veritas


It is on silent nights like these

That I revel into myself deeply

Opening to the world’s soft breeze

Ever so gently, ever so simply,

I swallow the ethers and her light frame

Engulfing every possible

Attempting to make my delicate claim

With no knowledge of sensible,

Sadly, in the end, ’tis morning

And its pale knight which catches up always

Happily to my eyes, mourning,

In pines of winter, in the long summer,

Dawn is the lady moon who sways

– Siren – the rough tides around my drummer.


To she whom the wise goddess hold in her palm.

What a wondeful world


I see skies of deep blue

Changing to veils of grey,

I see no single hue

Tainting the souls of clay

Bearing the sacred cup

Host to rivers of wine,

As hearts seem to stack up

Where diamonds perhaps shine

I see no letting go,

I see grasping at straws

For djinns of indigo,

I see how lightness draws

The moth into the night

And yet the wall is white.


21h59, one minute to the end of the world.

Piano piano


Piano, piano! Silencio!

Don’t make a sound,

Be featherbound,

In magnum existencio,

Soundless and fair

As light as air

Mind full of stars,

Grand images

Of peace and wars,

How rich is poor;

Open the door,

Break the hinges.


“Another one of those damn experiments of his!”

raw puppe


We are straw puppets dancing in a fire,

We are marionnettes chanting on a wire,

Round and round we go, in frenzied flashes,

Mind and heart at war, a thousand clashes,

Icarus of the heart, rising so high,

Sisyphean fools of the kind that try,

Until we burn our wings, until we tire,

Building and, with our hand, lighting the pyre

On which we repose and evermore lie

Disappearing with the faintest sigh

Into the deep night, small pile of ashes;

The flames have consumed our deepest gashes.


A funeral for the living.



Long ago lived this fox – wild – which I tried to tame,

Its heart was is a box deep behind walls of shame,

It felt vulnerable with very few loose threads,

And yet more than able to turn so many heads,

I tried hard to become its friend, its companion,

But could not overcome the width of this canyon

That it had dug so deep and baleful between us,

Days grew into months and months into years

And I feared this story would forever be thus

Though I never gave up or gave in to my fears,

Then on a rainy noon a miracle happened,

We but shared a small cup next to a warm fireplace,

It was a simple drink however, it deepened

The bond we had woven out of this breath-thin lace,

To this day I know not whatever made it change

Its ways, its trust but home came suddenly in range;

Now the door was open even if just a tad

And the uninviting, time-ragged stone threshold

That, since the beginning, had always seemed so sad

Filled with colorful lights the air that once was cold.


Fiends are but friends that never are.

Idée fixe


Du bout des doigts je la caresse

Mais je ne sais me décider,

Je ne sais si c’est par paresse,

Si mon courage est oxydé,

Ou si je crains ma maladresse…

Je me sens bien trop évidé,

Affaibli par la sécheresse

De mon cœur et de ses idées;

Peut-être faut-il que je laisse

L’énigme non-élucidée?

Que je cède à cette faiblesse

En acceptant l’âme ridée,

Elle dont la grande détresse

Vient aigrement consolider

La haute et sombre forteresse

De ma verve dilapidée?

Ou encor que tout cela cesse

Et que je me laisse guider

Par le doux encens de grand messe

Qu’émane de cette orchidée…


Compter fleurette.