that's why dreams are...instead of dreaming

of being

who you're not, be you.

Someone is taking a picture of you

Of you next to a king and his queen

Maybe it's you taking night snap shots

while dreaming of becoming You.

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This horse has only one master

This master has only one horse

They brush the skin off of each other

and eat its pores into the undulating Nature -

closing the eyes, everything a Gaussian distribution -

they never ride away with

or eat it off -

an entirely different story:

as they inhabit dreams

as they ride the waves of fortune or misfortune,

not knowing to tell one apart from the other

as they suffer the sheer cry-touch of horror,

absence of the loved one brings about,

coiled, forgetful of the nimbus of light at the end of those days.

This master only rides this horse.

This horse.

Photo credits: personal archive

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Round us to the shape of the womb

To the cry it bestows on humanity

as if the mouth of the tomb was birthing

light where the dark past of unrepented faults

infused into the soft, fluid form

of the body and soul

was glowing its contrary layers into

youngsters, the mature and the old.

Natural filters.

And whether you fill or you(only) feel

the existence of past experiences

the three folds on the swing of the universe

will give you dimension.

will teach you the wrongdoings by undoing them.

Even if you hear it:

"what's been done cannot be undone"

your trust be not swayed!

Face it, all up, all down if you have to,

Don't be swayed!

Clear the land as if you were clearing your throat

And speak those words you're ever reluctant to speak

Because what's hidden, it's also what you're past

Locked and wombed

Birthed into your being being you

being me

Photo credits: personal archive

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These pines will never fall towering over

unkind buzzes of cars and people all together

as they swing from side to side

teased but not humbled by the wind:

they own this - heads raised

between the ground and the sky

they can afford to differentiate themselves from humans

(...)

Photo credits: personal archive

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She doesn't push for the future. She's been waiting.

God has found a nest in her.

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Before they started devouring

as we know they have.

(...)

then sacred consciousness

you're left with as you weep like a prophet

(...)

Photo credits: My sister's photo from her personal archive

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there's something impossible

in every fine line of her body

as age takes its toll and rests

on the only bone that unites the sky and the earth.

Photo credits: https://depositphotos.com/photos/impossible.html?qview=13666763

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A door opens another

while another door closes another

window that opens a window

that closes.

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"Tell me, A.G.!"

"Why is it that your shoes crushed the ants?"

"Do you hope to get seen someday?"

He did not answer. A wry smile lit up his face as he went up to her...

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(the first ever winter that turned into summer overnight)

Her ancestors as if condemned, none of them entertained hope,

but she suspended the warped war and soared up to the multicoloured moonbeams,

living out the world's dreams as its youngest resident.

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