eternal #22

a precious stone
in enclosed ignorance,
is hidden behind the husk.

an ember,
without a chance to burn,
is quietly smoldering.

a daydream about someone
who will appreciate
the unpolished panes
of a gem.

panes that cut deep,
yet the blood from the wound
has the same taste as a blood
from a bitten lip.

withering wither
don’t lament your purity
or quest for an essence of love.

it is your pick to wake up
with the bland taste in the mouth
or with the taste of blood
on a bitten lip.


eternal #17

can be the endless source
for the inspiration.

like gathering tiny grains of sand with
chopsticks, from the walls of an indeterminated vessel

grain by grain,
until the bowl is empty

and you hit the wall
that doesn’t crack.


an enkindle

the headlights of a car approaching  from the opposite direction
or a paid electric bill.

it is the silence on the other side of the phone line
or another bottle of cheap beer that you drink.

it is the nuclear explosion on TV
or the dead fly that float in your cup of morning coffee.

it is the splinter in your palm
or the moment in the past where you were caught in bed with your neighbor’s daughter.

it is the pain of birth,
or last grasp of the air.

the confession of the mirror

waking up in the morning, –
for her is became more of a routine,
rather than a necessity.

she is still in her bed, laying naked.
naked inside,
stripped from yesterday’s ado
by the artificial nightmares.

covered by the shades from the oak tree.

soon she’ll get up.
her feet will touch a hardwood floor,
and the tiles will happily squeak
rejoicing in her steps.

she’ll slip into her t-shirt,
(it wasn’t originally her)
who knows
who cares.

(I do, because I saw)

first she’ll make herself another coffee,
then she’ll make herself another day.

another day,
the t-shirt is on the hardwood floor,
and no more naked feet.

only pain,
left by her high heels on the shiny surface.

the empty coffee cup.
shades of the tree, that on the southern wall,

and me
her mirror on the wall.