Limerence piercing the night
with the hope of eternal sunshine:
firework wishes fall apart through my eyes
like shooting stars
in the rainbow colored sky.
Andersen’s stories highlight
the darkness of an enchanted
fairy tale
A three way dance forever written
between my shadow, my reflection and myself.
I dreaded that first robin though,
waving his wings and leaving in the thrills of summer,
The stolen song
from a soulful nightingale
who wept for its own captivity
And the beauty of every weeping willow tree,
Caressing the skin of foreign lakes.
Remember, remember the 5th of November
Was a forbidden anthem,
between the sweetness of his childhood memories
and my long-forgotten dreams.
I found in his sparkling eyes the yearnings of my youth,
no so long ago,
but felt like three lifes already lived and wasted:
a camper around the world,
under a heavy coat of stars,
the sexy perfume of freedom—
and a shared sip of poison
In the red room of compromise.
But there are always spiders,
Sphinxes guarding
portals of magic gardens,
poems written with red-rose ink
stolen from the nightingale’s chest
The crushed daisy song,
the dreams of I should and should not.
His hand lingered next to mine,
untouched divine space,
like God and Adam’s
platonic heaven
in Saint Peter’s dome.
Tívoli was the stop of my daydreams
and nightmares—
the Tarot sun and the tower,
the arcade and the roller coaster—
Stars aligning
At the wrongest of time.
Haunted houses never entered
will haunt me forever.
In the darkness I wonder
what shadows may have glittered.
I fear the pixie’s dream of madness,
and the empty swing at the Scottish cemetery—
because I shouldn't and want them so.
And how to make peace
with these rags of skin
that still desire
everything and more?:
The crown and the magic wand,
the rom-com and the Russian novel,
the roots and the clouds,
the peace and the stormy weather.
I want to be a little bit lost
until I find myself,
in a quest for the quest,
to point at a star and follow
without ever feeling the need
Of getting somewhere.
I want to stop and smell the roses,
salute the ducks in a pond anywhere,
and write as I go,
in between plumes and feathers—
to be the poet and the poetry
all at once.
