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Cold and DesperateThe rain pours down
Upon forlorn ground
Earning my enmity as I weep.
The blood-stained memories in winter's icy grip,
Grass, brown and dying, swaying as if a ship.
Behind unseeing eyes of brown,
Those opaque windows to a soul unfound,
A man longs and pleads,
Unheard among the dark green weeds.
The pain, so sweet, is a means to an end,
As no man's heart learns to defend
Against such sweet pain
The emotions she feigns
Warmth never obtained
And desperate love never gained.
Such a sad thing,
The mournful silence as the sparrow sings,
The unheard keening as his soul bleeds,
Unacknowledged in this prison of weeds.
The thick brown barbs of the withering rose bush,
They tear so deeply, they push, they push,
And I feel the oncoming fear,
A resolute darkness that is always near.
Is there any hope as yet,
Or is my fate already set?
Why must I wait
For the passing of fate,
For my fear to become hate,
For the sun to shine too late?
Can I conquer what I cannot see?
Why is it that I must always flee?
Journey SolitaryLost he seems.
Forsaken he feels.
Its back the world hath turned,
on this lonely soul.
In sight there is not a friend.
A helping hand no one to lend.
To accompany him just fear and dread,
on his long trek home.
Feelings are Dust (even when ours are the same)
Dark chocolate & espresso
with Bic ink you're dust.
My stomach & your brain
makes dawn a twilight red dusk.
A couple of words
describe us two.
me & you.
Get the drift? Feel that draft?
That's an ozone aroma, a prelude to rain.
Nature's craft is my gift
and my gift is just a game.
I don't know how you feel now but if you'll have some dark chocolate and espresso with me we'll probably feel the same.
Whatever that's worth.
WishmasterA whisper, in cold skies of old, dying stars
Is heard, and their lingering death
With not one regret turns and scatters in waste,
As realms of shattered humanity haste
To live and to burn out their breath.
Yet soon there's a scream, a small cry of despair
That binds all the skies to avail,
And one daring soul stands behind to convey
His wish to unravel all living dismay,
To bury his past and prevail.
And thus it begins, as no man can escape
The sweet domination of want,
While stars burn and shine, for so he allows,
The master of wishes that hastily vows
To bring forth desires to grant.
But no man can endure the cruel truth behind,
The wasteland of the human fate,
As all exploration of such fragile minds
Leads only to nothing, and all that it finds
Are fragments of wishes and hate.
And so he remains, whose new story of life
Has neither a middle nor end.
For stars will grow cold and will wantonly die
When wishes are old, while humanity’s lie
Of life will no longer commend.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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