You’ll find me.

Image

Must death always find its way to us?

A paper full of memories, I don’t want to kill it. 

Find me.

Look for me in the depths of the unknown,

In the hidden secrets of the soul.

In broken pieces and forgotten places.

I’ll be her.

The one clad in silk, or maybe in nothing.

The one living solitary, beneath the snow.

Who’s lover, he; din’t even know!

Find me in the dates of of this mortal world,

in the breath of your sweetheart.

In the reflection of that broken glass,

I’ll be the one.

Crying in the closet of your majestic wooden house.

In the aging of  the tree,

in the ruins of the world.

In khadi and silk,

woven not produced.

Touched, felt and embraced by a thousand!

I’ll linger in the haunting scents of your once present

I’ll be the one banging on the doors of your memory 

The leaf in the snow.

Not beautiful, no never! Alone.

Take me in now,

So when you touch, do you feel a thousand others more?

You don’t possess me, you never can.

I’m wild and free.

I’m pen and paper.

I’m written and unwritten

Told and forgotten.

His memory shall remember,

when his past shall haunt.

Don’t hide too far,

This is home, I am home.

Yet, you’ll chase me and forget me

and once again; remember me.

Centuries would pass.

What’s my struggle is your victory,

my love now your hate.

my present and your past.

It’s not a different world,

it’s the same.

When you embrace me, 

when you cut that tree,

when you’ll write that letter,

you’ll know me,

oh! I promise.

You’ll find me!

 

Advertisements

A Mortal On An Immortal Bridge.

images (4)

“Is this your first breath there, or is it your last here?

Who has written your story? Do you know your story? “

I’ll put on a coat now, I’ll tell you stories now.

You could walk with me if you like or turn away

Either way is just fine.

Beneath my coat you won’t find a dress,

Because I’m a perfect mess.

My sweater and my jeans comfort me. Keep me warm.

On the banks of the river, I shall walk.

The trees are giving away,

The leaves now grow old, gracefully.

Red, as though the lord had put in a little bit of fire in them.

They shall burn, they shall give light.

All before they let go.

Of themselves, of forgetting their names.

Someone will take over, they have to.

The bridge will still stand, strong. People will walk.

The benches and public phones will stay.

They’ll always lead to the Eiffel.

Like the bridges in our life. They’ll lead us to where we belong.

Sit under that tree, oh! It’s beautiful.

“Linden”; It’s name.

Every step on that path shouts love and purity.

That’s how our lives should feel.

You, your loved one(s)

Happiness. Purity.

Beauty. Eternal love.

Sit on that bench,

Upon your head will you see, the tree smiling at you

Guarding you, protecting you

Like your innocence, and childhood.

As though it’s blessing you.

Its leaves the shape of a heart.

God’s the best writer,

You don’t have to have a private plane,

And you don’t have to have a grand wedding.

It’s all there.

Nature has it all, laid out for you.

Life’s not a burden, it’s not a game.

He sent you down, to be a part of him.

To marvel at his works of perfection,

The one we, mortals would never create.

Sit there, look at that river

Breathe.

Breathe the air that brings life

Not the one that causes cancer.

He may not be your soul mate,

He may not be your brother,

Not even your father.

She may not be your sister,

Maybe not your mother,

But embrace them,

Embrace them all.

Those who stand by you, hold their hand.

Take a while,

Walk with them.

Not in metro’s, not in the office, not on Skype

But in real life.

Feel the touch of human skin,

The supple creation, designed to comfort.

How does it feel?

To know you have the warmth on the cold winter night?

Maybe that’s why this road was made,

Probably why it was never the same.

Maybe the leaf of the tree over your head will eventually fall,

And tree will one day have new leaves,

But it will always.

Life goes on.

And it’s okay to sit there, pamper yourself

Let the tree and its leaves heal you,

To hold the hand of those you love,

Before your journey ends,

Till you reach your destination.

So far from Innocent – Neurotic Writer’s Diary – Page 4

A few seconds turn into minutes, hours; gradually into days and months. Often we wait, for someone, something in all those moments that make life. We wait.

Sleeping every night with little dreams, hopes and rules for the next day to come and sometimes not sleeping at all. Just a cup of coffee, a pen to write and memories to recall or decisions to make. Tasks of the material world divert our hearts and souls from things we would like to keep close… They come back. Often.

To think of an end of an era is scary.

Maybe because we’re scared we’ll never live the past again. Nights of despair , lost thoughts and tears and yes, nights of good writing!

The beginning of the night is scary, the end painful! Like a mother holding her child to her bosom and giving it in the hands of a stranger.

When did I grow old?

How and why did I agree to give up my innocence? When did the sparkle in our eyes go away? Since when have we become selfish manipulative beings?

The desperation to be makes us crazy. And in the craziness we forget.

To spend nights being lost, engrossed in ourselves.

In making decisions for time is man made and so is society.

Grow up as you. Passion often takes away innocence

But living in the past only gives you tears of remembrance.