Dreams and past…

it seems
the broken door waits on the pebbles of patience
arms rusted by the winds of time


I see the darkness peeping through its sides
is she there inside?
With her vision trapped in the black air.


why is my mind so restless?
pushing itself against this innocent heart?


am I dreaming?
yes, I have slept with this dream before.


or is it ,
the small packet of white powder
I tore last night?


No…then why does Picasso say
“Everything we imagine is real”?


Thanks Michelle ,
my room still smells of your Vera Wang
your enigma still haunts the old voyeur on the roof


do you still bear my kiss on your lips?

do I still remind you of cigarettes and Shakespeare?

or have you lost them in the flavors of passion?


but these are meaningless now
as I walk past this door…


golden swords of the sun through the small cracks
hanging stretches of soot,
a miasma greeting me inside


a hanging frame of good times on the wall


yes…I have seen this lady before
smiling in a red swimsuit


do I hear the tune
I have heard when I have slept under the moon?


it still speaks of poems and tears…


does she call me under the shadow of this soulful music?



such difficult times come seldom though
and here I am
standing in this room where the young maiden sits on the stool
playing the piano on the notes of pains and past


why do dead spirits so love
mysteries
under the cruel mask of revenge?

( here Michelle refers to my ex-lover and Vera Wang was the name of the perfume she used)