They say the best of works stem from melancholy.
That when you seem not to mind reaching anywhere you carve the best of roads in your way.
She, to the world is just a tiny figure carved in silence. She apparently curls comfortably somewhere within her perfect personal space.
She is being just a tiny figment of an old lore, by the sunlight filtering through soft curls.
To the world she is just that.
She sees enormous waves crashing against steep cliffs. Labyrinthine blues and mountain music wrapped in benign white linen.
A bundle of contradictions wrapped up in floral scarves, that when the veneer of plainness thins down, out explodes a billowing smoke in rich mauve, crimson in blue.
Colors of the utopian dream, in her own personal choices.
Momentary lapses of reasons that visit the quarters in hours hidden from the world, that no-one sees nor defines ever.
It’s a kaleidoscope of words, a chiaroscuro of whispers played by the tiny hollow beneath the ears where dreams usually trickle down to nothingness, an estuary where lullabies and nightmares flow as one.
In a body betrayed by desire, there stand some virgin fires never having seen the light of the day.
There stand some silent sentinels of love unstirred, unshaken of pure aboriginal innocence.
There stand I somewhere between her eyes and a blurry dream forming miles away.
In the tiny fingers entwined in honest untangled lost.
In silent promises made to herself, wilting beneath the pillow, some unfortunate personal biases squirming , pulsing within the delicate ankles and wrists.
There stand I always helping her stay afloat.
That when you seem not to mind reaching anywhere you carve the best of roads in your way.
She, to the world is just a tiny figure carved in silence. She apparently curls comfortably somewhere within her perfect personal space.
She is being just a tiny figment of an old lore, by the sunlight filtering through soft curls.
To the world she is just that.
She sees enormous waves crashing against steep cliffs. Labyrinthine blues and mountain music wrapped in benign white linen.
A bundle of contradictions wrapped up in floral scarves, that when the veneer of plainness thins down, out explodes a billowing smoke in rich mauve, crimson in blue.
Colors of the utopian dream, in her own personal choices.
Momentary lapses of reasons that visit the quarters in hours hidden from the world, that no-one sees nor defines ever.
It’s a kaleidoscope of words, a chiaroscuro of whispers played by the tiny hollow beneath the ears where dreams usually trickle down to nothingness, an estuary where lullabies and nightmares flow as one.
In a body betrayed by desire, there stand some virgin fires never having seen the light of the day.
There stand some silent sentinels of love unstirred, unshaken of pure aboriginal innocence.
There stand I somewhere between her eyes and a blurry dream forming miles away.
In the tiny fingers entwined in honest untangled lost.
In silent promises made to herself, wilting beneath the pillow, some unfortunate personal biases squirming , pulsing within the delicate ankles and wrists.
There stand I always helping her stay afloat.
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