they remark to my canvas

Hyacinth garden

as I wander through shadows

the muse of my touch

clouds veil and sink into the sea

they remark to my canvas.

go shed the skin,

with hands held in prayer,

stiffen under graceless feelings just a little speck

on the stinging wind

such beauty

frail bloom of love


go imaginary

in winter discoveries

laboring for affection

swallow mysteriously the turning point

we died in a dream removed in a message to the stars.

a ruthless rendezvous down the avenue, a meteor

as a metaphor straight up in the air.

ghosts woo me,

all sweetness


looking for a lost heaven…

in an asylum

as love splashes on canvas through the snow of winter.

wrestle with fate while pretentiousness seeks,

trust of promises kept in summer.

all forms of attraction dancing on achievements,

the spirit space onto the race

a place beneath the covers.

so I wrote a poem and showed it to the electric current

of my melancholy.

if it were possible

it would lay there before the rise of the sun.

instead, I penetrate observing the weak.

inflamed, at my

given name.

let it tell in measure.

as though the sun blackened

in November’s sapphire sky,

those days when chill

frost is in the wind and leaves are gone away.

feeling the burning desire like a predator hunting his prey.

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sanctus's picture

Excellent work as usual 

Excellent work as usual