Fireflies

Fireflies

Arise

Outside

My garden

And float

Joyfully

On a gold

Energy

We all hold

Inside.

They arise

From my mind

And dance.

Are they

Side glance?

I fear;

But I hear,

They sing

Near

My soul

Could they

Be parts

Of my whole?

I wish

They scatter

Magic dust

And gather

My pieces,

Glue them together;

Living wishes

Never

To be silenced;

I balance

On the edge

Of insanity

I wonder

What stops me?

Could it

Be my vanity?

Fireflies

They light

The night

My mind travels

From

Time to time

Therein the depths

Of my awareness

Behind the hills,

Through the black grass

Into the forest

With no will

The rivers pass

Stern and wild

In my veins,

From the spirit

To my mind.

I revive.

But am I

Truly alive?

The dark is deep

And, still,

Not at all

Asleep;

I creep

Seeing him

Turning his eyes

Away

From the pray

I used to be;

And, now,

He lets me leave,

To wonder

Free.

I look at him

Already

Turn his back on me

Into the dim.

He left

Bereft

Of

Game.

But he left me

Insane.

Fireflies

Is all I see,

Inside

My night.

But I fear

I might

Be under

Delusion.

Yes,

I fear

It may be

A confusion

And it is not me

Who should be

Absolved

Of madness

Or any form

Of it,

Including sadness.

I tend

To retreat

Into dark;

But, look

At these

Flying beetles!

They set fire

To the sky;

They made

My night

Came to life

At a stroke

Of a silent cry.

Dear firefly

Let me cherish you

In all your

Greatness,

Let me heal

My soul

With your light,

Magic

Brightness,

Keeper

From dark.

Fireflies

Etherize

In my grounds;

The land now

Abounds

Of them.

And dreams

Awake

In happiness

Can never take

Back;

I reconnect

From my

Insomniac

State

And realize

The

Fireflies

Reflect

In my eyes

And come

From within

Spreading

Out

As never seen,

All about.

Pendency

Talking to stranger

Walking through danger

Don’t know what to do,

With me, with you.

How did I get here?

The pain in the arm is so real

I can touch the hurting flesh

So acute, so real.

There is no escape from death,

The soul is meant to bleed

Suffering is its birth seed

From which we grow;

Coming from somewhere,

Heading to unknown,

We live, but we dream,

We see the unseen.

Look at these people,

Do you know them?

Do they know you?

I don’t think so;

Keep everything near?

I don’t know what to do,

How did I get here?

Talking to you?

Lonely Room

The lights enter through the square glasses of the window and lay on the brown-cherry wooden floor. From time to time they shiver, stroke by the branches of the old nut tree from the yard. A small yard run to weed in forty two years of long quiet abeyance. And seasons roll one after another; always knock on the door and always none answer. Reflections of passing clouds come and leave; drops of late cold autumn slip down the window and wash away in heat of summer.

Warm lights of spring lay on the ground and, full of childish hope, enter once again in the room. But to the joy of whom? The room is quiet as a mouse. The bed is made, but empty; the nightstand holds two books, but full of dust: one has leather backs, the other stands almost naked by thick paper cover; the title says “ESCAPE”.

A four on four room with a simple wooden, two doors closet, a small desk in the corner, to the right of the window. The door is closed.

Everything stands still. Still like frozen world in time. If it had not been for the playful lights of the sun, the room would be cold as ancient witches in dead forests. But there is something more in the light than dust particles flying around. There is warm in cold and, therefore, there is life in death. And through the old window’s frame, birds’ peeping breaks the deep silence. It merely looks alive if you listen; but if you took a closer look, you will find…nothing. The silent! Cold nights will speak to it. Yes, from spring to autumn, noises from outside will break through glass and bump into the walls. They will echo in the sunny winter’s days. But, at night, they will all die and reveal the nothingness; because there is nothing here.

Now, the room is empty, but warm, still, but open to sounds; sounds of alarmed voices. Just take a look outside the window: some children are shouting at a boy who tries to jump over the wooden tall fence, back in the alley. Oh! That ball, it must be so important.