.

Roses are red,

Violets are not blue,

Well, not all the time,

Sometimes they are white,

But let it be said

That I love you,

I have for some time

And do again every night.

.

A little something, stupid and rash, but true.

.

Although it may grow weak my hope will never die,

Let me explain to you the reason of the why:

My hope is not a way nor a response to fright,

It is not a bright flame burning deep in the night,

My hope is not a sword with which I fell my wrath,

It is no wildfire cindering all on its path,

My hope is no symbol, it is not a fanfare

Nor a thousand candles lit for as much prayers,

My hope is neither sun, nor moon, or any star,

Bringing soft, wanderful warmth to and from afar,

Tis neither a lighthouse guiding me in darkness,

My hope is not either a string or a harness;

For given enough time they will rot and wither,

Scatter in the wind never to come back hither.

No, my hope is no light, but the music of dawns,

Sometimes it might seem bleak, but the colours it dons…!

On and off again, in a never-ending dance,

Never quite far away, never quite by your side,

Empty of any form, yet filling the expanse,

Always so beautiful, yet fleeting as the tide;

My hope is not a gift. No, my hope is a curse.

It will never vanish no matter all my verse,

For every door I open, every step I make,

For every score I begin, every breath I take,

I hope you are behind, I hope you are beyond,

You are my piece of mind, you are my Amy Pond.

.

Once again, I hope.

Some sort of essay on the hopelessness of hope sometimes.

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Just as notes on a note sheet

Or colors on a canvas,

Just as words shot in the air

Or a scene in a movie,

Thousand eyes see not one blue,

Thousand ears hear not one note,

Thousand mouths say not one word,

Thousand films play not one life;

Change the lighting of the street

And wrinkle becomes crevasse,

The child most sweetest and fair

Turns frank and further groovy,

What you feel is but a glue

Stitching the strange ship afloat,

For, when all the lines are blurred,

Your own face may become rife…

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*

When colors on the canvas

And when notes on the note sheet

Spell the words “porque te vas?”

It is ever bitter-sweet…

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Atop his high tower the weary guardian knows

That only the power of light thwarts eerie throes,

That the bright and warm fire, as Ariadne’s thread,

Guides the ships to the shore, keeping them all ahead

From Charon and his barque through all the thickest nights,

Through all the deepest fogs, as they brave the great sea;

A shadow on the wall, a puppet on a string.

He knows this, yet he doubts: oh would anyone see?

Would his absence be felt, hidden by the great lights?

A shadow on the wall, a puppet on a string.

How many moons have rocked the dreams he tries to keep

Concealed behind his heart? For the red-hot iron

Rising again each day burns the true number deep

In both his skin and soul: a thousand one aion.

A shadow on the wall, a puppet on a string.

And yet there he is still waiting for who to be,

Come what may, standing fast against the salty brine,

Eternal assailant of this lost, godless shrine;

No reward, no witness, only hope of what maybe.

A shadow on the wall, a puppet on a string.

.

And yet so close…

.

Close your eyes and imagine

– Imagine your own mind

Now silent and peaceful –

You are in a dark room

Without light or music

And a single window

Casts a shapeless shadow

Upon the cherry brick,

In your hand is a wand

Of steel and magic boom,

A butterfly floats in

With feathers made of gloom

And fingers full of wick,

– Edging err bred the brand

Of the incoming sin;

Imagine and tell me

What do you do and why?

Do you listen to see

This sibling of the sky

Or do you let the sand

Drip into the hollow?

Perhaps that is the key

Or perhaps it’s a lie,

Who knows and who will know

What noes are really no

When a gust on the skin

May turn the world around…?

Image in your own mind

Now silent and piece full.

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Well? What would you do?