Of ; or pertaining to.

I know what the truth is.Illusion

is a constructed idea too.

My mind is running,

Like an army of toothpicks.

Have these words formed me?

Or am I the reason for their existence?

Are all the poets suffering  too?

In their confusion : and

moments of liberation.

Transgressing the path 

that is already fixed.

I know not

where the stars emerge from

In this holy scape

I know not

what creates matter.

Repeatedly ,

I dwell on this conflict.

A paper bag is empty

But its

also filled with  the emptiness.

I hope this paradox moves you,

for it is what it is.

The fire can't burn a hole in the water.

Water cannot create an abyss.

Me and You.
Rising Over a french moon.
Untangling the phone wires.
Picking up plums
for our childish desires.
And the black crow sits still.
And there's no way I could miss this.

Me and you.
Rising over a french moon .
craving for honey dew
witnessed by the purple rain
That  doesn't fit

In this clumsy view

You looked in my eyes.

sure I'd keep you

warm and unbreak

if there was ever a sign of love

Its this look on your face.

People resting in playgrounds.

 Everywhere I'm taken - some

  stay low

 others greet you

 some mislead

 some suffer

 others remain indifferent

 so I asked Mr.humble-stick

 which one are you?

The artwork shown below is not my work

Count .

Infusions. 
 Drops of honey on the piano keys. 
Perfectly rustic melody. Deep yellow. Shinning.
 A few gaps of silence 
filled with twitching flies before the night is taken away. 
watching the snow fall
 from my ceiling 
on to the iron books.