For all the people who are on the night train alone thinking about the beauty of the world - lonesome reflection

For all the flowers that bloom after long winters

For all the unsung heroes who were once villains

For all the mistiest of souls who were once lost but now found

For all the bloodshot nights and days that go untouched by love

For all the cowards that will brave the fear

For all the boys and girls without a father figure, and a mom's

For all those addicted to those betraying kinds of love and beauty and who don't yield in to anymore

For all the momentum poets understand and lose

For all those people who will find love and for those who won't

For all those that struggle with forgiveness and want to steer clear of hurt

For all those that fail to creep into the cosiest of don'ts and do's

For all those that risk their lives to gain eternity

For the eternal, sacred time component orbiting around historical time

For all the love left untouched, spread on the crumbs of humanity and the failure of a promise

For all those unspread layers of niceties that hold true to a direct approach

For all the dappled sunlight that shines through trees in late afternoons while squirrels are playing and woodpeckers are hammering on

For all those slow trains that travel through the gorge through tunnels carved in stone, sort of time tunnels stuck as in a time capsule revealing bits of wonders - leaves and berries you could touch out of the train windows

To your soul window that opens into other shut windows, soul windows, and does not care to shut but stays open

For the small towns, seemingly innocent and pure, when no soul is there to be seen in the early hours of the morning. Then, as the day is progressing, the town would eat away at its light while the dark would still dig the light out - rocks of the solid foundation

Photo: Personal Archive

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I was asked if I missed or healed from missing my mom

First of all, she is not dead in the sense most of us understand death

Second of all, you cannot escape the most human example of being a human:

miss, love, miss, miss love - to the extent of not coming across it.

It's very human to be able to miss the one person that gave you life and light and love and would love unconditionally, the best she could in the ways she knew.

I feel I have not yet consumed the bereavement

or allowed myself to fall into the sentimentality of it all

I have been too busy taking over

I gave the only possible answer at that time:

'I'm filled with so many voids that I don't feel any, or anything'

I felt once again the loneliness of not having the right people next to me

I felt sick and tired of people complaining of their fearful and unimaginative ways of living

that sometimes reflected mine

I felt emptied of love and sense and purpose, maybe because of myself spreading too thin

on the people that did not reciprocate

or were just uncapable of love and loving

It's not about you I've kept telling myself

Make it about others - the love, not the lack of it

However, I could but turn to myself when I had given myself too many times to the wrong people and almost never had the right ones who would stay, just stay and be a part of my life

I didn't want to use metaphors for this -

After all, it's a confession

of someone, apparently, selfish, thinking too much of herself, and way too often these days

Photo: Personal archive

Note: The sound of the river is real, and, hopefully not disturbing

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(...) in a beguiling sentiment that,

as part of the lifecloth,

in the most inhumanely

humane way, almost undivinely divine,

it is worth understanding: when life

leaves the body, the prominent feeling

is not of absence but of presence

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Light green replaced by dark green 

after a few steps in time Moses has taken.

His return - she following suit, in his footsteps, going a little further, with confidence - the lightness in the younger age would give, in the wonders, in the makings.

'Miss, do you miss...it?'

'The more you give, the less you take'

'Should this be a fair deal?'

'Cast-waiting as in cast-shadow'

For years, not light at all, she's been questioning the 'take', whether anything, anything at all, will be hers, whether she's been foot-stepping, or step-footing life on her own

terms,

terms;

terms:

whether her take on it would be the 'take' or just the 'give'.

'Some will never have a fair deal, just a fair share of...'

'Never say never'

Her return - moving forward, keep moving forward; receive, not take; give, not m...possess.

Photo: Freepik

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The lambs are dancing

while

rolling rocks on the shoulders of the hills

They are singing

while

spitting salt on the bottom of the sea

(...)

they are dancing and in this dance there's us

... ...

... ..

... . ... ... ..

... ... .... .... ... ...............

...

singing

Liam Read's Photo on Unsplash

https://unsplash.com/@liamread

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HUMAN CONDITION

They call it a heart. 

I call it the lack of it.

(...)

Your baby's hair grows. short 

Of ages of desire, 

Of the beat of innocence, of the last touch of candour.

It grows.

(...)

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Spare the sun the view it has on trees

Barks that you peel as you'd like to get it

why they don't complain (as we do

when skin peels softly into ages of beauty unsure if only young age you'd call beauty)

when their bodies fall to ground, to die, already dead or just moving into another state the micro universe feeds on

(...)

Photo: personal archive

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Old her crammed into her vanities

slipping her hands into time's pockets.

This pocket having as big events as chasing eclipses on a starry sky, or vice versa.

Verse in, vice out.

The pat on the shoulder from the child they used to be, a peek-a-boo kind of sign,

with a grin on those small, freckled faces

reliving it once again in wrinkled memories

suffering from not finding the fair share

between the past and the future.

Be once again in this together.

The otherness is not a thing they climb the ladder for

is not a thing that happens to many

It is one almost no one strives for when there is as much as the future can hold

Insane to remain restless when you need to rest from all the burdens, flat out - there is a voice that whispers.

There is a little space unfilled, or rather filled with nothing

Just when you decide to jot the square into a diacritical mark called roundness of a shape unknown

Flattened the Earth once again into your hands, also called 'Mmasticated grass as the path flattens out'

Called as in 'named after his father's treacherous behaviour'

No saint is there to praise his doings.

Spend as little as you can on this

Sleep wrapped into your dreams

That prevent you from taking action

when you wake up.

Photo: freepik

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He bites off the whole of her as if she was no half

He eats her entirely as if she were no half

It sounds terrible though it isn't

It is a story where in order to exist you have to

CANIBALOVE

As that is the highest form of love:

There is no half way to hell or heaven

(...)

Photo: personal archive

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(...)

Not until neighing has become the voice of nature in the barking of the dogs,

chirping of the birds and scattering of the wind

Not until you've admitted wholeheartedly

Not until you've disgraced yourself that

you've been graced

(...)

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