Birds and Bits of Paradise

Secluded lands and mirage of hopes, delving into eternal fabrics of my mind.

Resonance of words, imprint of time and chimeras long gone.

Light travels and I wonder….does time exist? For this reality made of sounds, and for these spaces made of interpersonal interpretations; would my echo resonate within these skyward dreams?

He who sees…senses; he who senses…feels; for the layers of my participation that no longer works when; out of my despair, I say to myself “look backward and try again”.

Light echoes, for my stars to shine through: there is this eternal wobbling manifest.

Because I looked backward; and because I tried again, light echoes are no longer: silver and gold, love and hate, hope and despair; beyond veils of my comprehension; and beyond my syntactical dichotomies…what’s left?

Human as I am, thinker and daydreamer poet; renaissance in my words for dusts in your clouds. For who thinks; and for who sees, no longer blind…what’s left?  Nothing. Nothing really.

It is my show, lost in my universe: no one else but me. What is being withheld from me, but my echoes; Whitman echoes …

“Only themselves understand themselves, and the like of themselves,

As Souls only understand Souls.”

Another day passes by, for my birds and these bits of paradise; shimmering lights and smooth textures I can feel.  Which way to approach this eternal void, this thirst for meaningfulness? My small stuff for these big thoughts. As hard as I try, gestures no longer work, poses and chorus no longer fit my old models: would time accept to be taken, and to properly be used? Could I make it feeling compelled to act towards my self-union? Burning inferno of my passions set me condemned: to be, to remain, to be-come.

As departure rings in, I can hear and touch this void. Now is the time to let go, time for letting go, time that left…gone, gone for a long time.

Dark emptiness all around, and silent sounds I can see in this deep space. Matter being less tangible, words becoming heavier and  the self becoming what it beheld: quite a strange dream. Waking up no longer works, pinching no longer suffices; as words condemned me; I was held accountable for these metaphors I once contemplated.

I said to myself: “look backward and try again”. Eternal voids: see; now is the time to let go.

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