Updated: Jan 31, 2021
White silence.
Crystal breathings.
Warm ink, organic calligraphy on the cold snow.
Soft grey and soothing black.
Winter thorn,
sharp points of being within the fluffy softness of a private cloud.
Updated: Jan 24, 2021
Sometimes dreams come slowly in slices
fragments and fractions.
They leave their carbon shades on your skin
offering the necessary intervening time
to watch the birds winging in the thick air
giving you an amplified vision
to observe each tiny crystal raindrop on the winter branches.
What rests in the end
is just this sense of icy verticality
settled with the line of your neck.
Years like freezing winters, winters like long years.
Areas of whiteness, confines and borders of being
-in silence
Muted in silent hibernation,
regular cycles of life and laws of nature.
Under this icy surface, veins of warm longins
a keen and clean desire to escape from
what numbs me evermore...