Taurus

In the beginning, there were many worlds.
Thin worlds. Black worlds.
They converged.

Then there was one bigger world.
One black world.
Thicker, too.
Also, long.
It went on and on.
Twisting, turning.
Until the hole.

Was it a gutter, or pleasure’s shore?
Who knows?
I don’t.

What’s known is this:
It stood on twisted legs.
Fat legs. Black legs.

But this was not a black world.
Not anymore.
No, it was pink.
I think.
Or mauve.

After that, it went to shit.
A labyrinth inside swollen mammaries.
Excreting reverse tears, back into eyes.

Into a lake of many eyes.
Not of this world.
Looking out of this world.
Green eyes, inside blue waters, inside green mountains, inside blue skies…

But, back to the world.
While it transformed.
It got ears, eyes, and horns.
A face.
A black face.
With blue eyes.

And in that face, another face.
A blue face. With black eyes.

And all the eyes were looking at me.
Eyes from faces, eyes from lakes.
Asking me to create worlds.
Many worlds.

So, in the end, there were many worlds.

Of Wood and Steel

We are defeated in our fire,

Our energies depleted,

Running out of transformations,

The mandrake screams.

Our branches pray to the Moon,

Our roots strain to reach the room

where Salamander’s throne stands.

Wild dogs howl at our amends.

Violence strives to tear apart,

-or has it torn our wings already?

Sometimes the air carries the cut

Of osteal blades, ethereal, deadly.

My love, my queen, my partner still,

We carry weapons of our own,

Severing tissue, crashing bone,

But never going for the kill.

Because the goblet of your moans,

Will never fail to wet my quil.

The cocoon bursts,

Running out of violence,

Our agility depleted,

We are defeated in our air.

Each of them came from a different Star

Each of them came from a different star,
Silent travelers in the cosmic bazaar.
Through galaxies vast, they wandered far,
Seeking the tales of lives bizarre.

Some from the fires of an ardent sun,
With dreams ablaze, like a race began.
Their light, a beacon, guides their way,
Illuminating paths where destinies sway.

Others from the cool, and distant spheres,
Where wisdom speaks in crystalline tears.
Ice-born souls with quiet in their eyes,
Carrying the echoes of supernal lullabies.

Each of them, a leading light in the choir,
Ignited by dreams, fueled by their fire.
From Orion’s belt to the farthest afar,
Each of them came from a different star.

They danced in the nebulae, clasped by the night,
Weaving their stories in the scope of starlight.
In the vastness, their fortunes intertwined,
A song of constellations, forever enshrined.

Through the eons, their stardust shall soar,
As mythical wanderers, forevermore.
For in the material of the endless expanse,
They find their unity, their immortal dance.

What is this love

A fist, clenched with fervor,
holding dreams and fears,
a grip on the heartstrings,
that resonates through years.

A knife, sharp and cutting,
through the veil of night,
leaving scars and whispers,
as passion takes flight.

A storm, unrestrained,
with lightning for eyes,
tearing down walls,
where weakness lies.

A flame, that is dancing,
in caverns of souls,
consuming all processes,
making spirits whole.

A symphony, harmonious,
playing the chords of delight,
orchestrating feelings,
in the tenderest of light.

A war, waged within,
against shadows that loom,
defending the fortress,
in the quiet of the room.

Is it like a phoenix?
Or, is it like a dove?
From ashes, we rise,
with white wings of love.

People Slept out on This

People slept out on this, beneath the moon’s harsh gaze,
Under the sable quilt of indifferent nights.
On concrete beds, their dreams scattered like ash,
Forgotten verses in a haunting lullaby.

Beneath the neon glow, where dreams were bought and sold,
They found solace in shadows, a refuge in the cold.
Alleys echoed with the sighs of the dispossessed,
The city’s pulse, a discordance of unrest.

Sleeping on the edges of a society frayed,
They bore witness to a world that turned a blind eye.
Cardboard mattresses and makeshift blankets, their reprieve,
The streets were calloused, the nights cold and grim.

A cardboard kingdom under the bridge’s arch,
Where stars peeked through the cracks, on their behalf.
Each face, a story engraved in lines of struggle,
Forgotten labyrinth where dignity did juggle.

Silent custodians, constructions tall and grand,
Ignored the nestled souls on the vindictive land.
Within each tattered coat and worn-out shoe,
Resilient were those whom society withdrew.

People slept out on this, where pavement met the sky,
Bearing the weight of the world with a weary cry.
Ignored the heartbeat, the sound of silent plea,
For home, for warmth, for a chance to simply be.

Afternoon Coffee

In a quiet, humming afternoon,
Knowing the shadows will be here soon,
A cup of steaming coffee, strong,
Becomes a balm of thoughts that long.

The aroma rises, comforting spell,
Memories stir in depths to dwell.
Dark liquid whispers tales untold,
In the sacred language of coffee, bold.

The porcelain cup, vessel of time,
Holds the quietude of a world sublime.
Each sip, a journey through moments gone,
A dance with ghosts when the day is done.

In the stillness, the melancholy sighs,
A companion in the half-closed eyes.
The coffee, a solace, bitter, not sweet,
Awakens the heart, a silent beat.

Through windows blurred, the daylight wanes,
A haunting melody comes with the rains.
The patter on the pane, a gentle song,
As coffee and solitude waltz along.

The world outside, a muted hush,
In liquid warmth, emotions blush.
A symphony of muffled hues,
In quietness, nostalgia strews.

The fingers hesitate on screen so white,
As the steam breathes in the fading light.
Words linger, suspended in the air,
Like breaking up a love affair.

So, in this afternoon’s embrace,
Coffee and yearning find their space.
A sip, a sigh, a clicking flight,
In the quiet stage of the fading light.

Forest Grave

You etch your presence deep into the core.
Each tree, moments shared and memories grown.
Rustling leaves carry the whispers of laughter,
Branches intertwine with echoes of conversations,
The roots dig deep, with the strength of connections.

But as the seasons change, so do the woods within.
The verdant leaves now rustle melancholic.
The branches ache with what’s unsaid,
Roots grapple with emotions entangled.
The forest echoes now with haunting melodies of solitude.

Yet, even as the shadows lengthen,
As the sun casts its farewell upon history,
I find solace in the enduring nature of trees.
Initials carved as a proclamation of unity,
Tell stories of growth, change, and the resilience of hearts.

And so, in the quiet of this eternal forest,
Trees bear the scars of time and affection.
I navigate the pathways of the past.
The forest within is a living, breathing beauty.
The complexity of intertwined existence,
A sanctuary where trees, though scarred, stand tall.

And echoes, bittersweet,
Resonate with the connection,
Time cannot erase.

Unbound Soul

In shadows deep, where freedom lies,
A spirit roams beneath the skies.
No crown to bear, no chains to bind,
A sovereign soul, in heart and mind.

Through realms unseen, this rebel roves,
Defying kings, transcending thrones.
No earthly ruler claims their heart,
In every beat, Anarchy’s art.

Among the stars, they find their kin,
A cosmic dance, where rebels spin.
No allegiance sworn, no fealty paid,
To empires built on power’s blade.

In whispered winds, their anthem sings,
A melody of freedom’s wings.
They live, they die, unapologetically,
A testament to what could be.

No earthly realm can ever shroud,
The boundless spirit, fierce and proud.
In life, in death, forevermore,
An Anarchist, their spirit soars.