joi, decembrie 17, 2009

newborn

the poet's pen is wasted among crippled words.
breathe in...
hahahah!the ink is my blood and my blood is ink among the desert papers.it's thirsty.demands water.
breathe out...
i'm not cold.i have my -wings- to keep me warm for now.does a dream have a testament? hahahaha! i bet it does not. i think it ceases to exist from the moment it ends.nothing left but butterfly wings dust. fiction.
breathe in...
is that a heart in the desert? it must be a miraje. i need some water.oh muses touch my aking hand!come closer so i can pierce you with my pen! damned pixies.
breathe out...
i think i broke my desert.just have to make a new one. where's my feathers? where are the nomads? where are you? come night! i am weary! you are.my comforting balm.
breathe no more.