Pass me onto your dreamy path,
let me follow the dusty leaves.
Love, the dear child,
a synonym for a mortal non-entity
strapped onto unborn babies,
onto dying stars, before rebirth.
My lips form trumpets,
because I enjoy the sound.
I call for unrestrained being,
the deep of me,
lends me visions,
of that which is beyond
but only sparingly,
since I’m still a verdant little one,
and we all know the need to be “normal”!
What are you?, when you don’t wear
Can you taste your own humor?
Your own love?
You cannot possess a thing,
since that one thing must belong to it’s own being.
Bondage takes hold of love, like a curious mosquito,
curious to taste, in the end sucking life out.
As I lay here, the window above,
making trumpet noises,
unaware of tomorrows blessings,
a shade or shadow pronounces the rosy whisper
of that, which cannot be uttered, that which
floats in front of me,
aware of it’s own