long hairs,
loosen...
... just like my steps.
And
now totally bathed by the moon,
with
Chrysalis thoughts,
dreaming
with a magic drawing,
and
waiting to complete with poetical colors,
the muse
born from myself…
Wandering
with a sluggished face,
and the body
fatigued with axiomas;
therefore,
letting
just my desire
to
meager all the wishes of my brain.
Up
in the firmament shines the Cassiopeia,
there
weren’t no more colors left,
just
the brush in hand,
and the frame staring back at me,
and paints that didn’t mix at all;
however allowing,
in the frame an extent,
an imaginary immaculate,
totally inverted in
meaning…
Perhaps just in another dimension,
in
some Woolgatherer
space,
a discret smile would come to confirm
that solitary reality.
So,
accomplice as usual,
the torpor of my steps reached the zenith
of the sleeping world.
Rest poet,
who knows tomorrow,
yes,
maybe tomorrow,
you
will wake up with an absurd excuse of a lived dream…