☽moonlight☾

when the leaves tremble their summer symphonies,

in spite of the scribbled skies leaning their wool above their shoulders,

and when the rain ever so gently paints my skin

with the memories of lives past and soon to bring,

when my feet kiss the ground, gentle home of the world and its splendour,

when the sunlight holds my hand through the mundane

with the same passion as on the summer days when i’m reborn

in the glistening of the lakes or the embrace of a lover,

even when my tooth aches and my jaw clenches,

when the essence of being escapes me, crystalline and liquid

sprinting on my cheeks, electrifying my cells,

i will write, i will write for all and in spite of all.

for the world offered itself in the form of beauty,

in the form of eyes and words to describe it.

i could lay under your blue sky immobile for a decade, accompanied only by the rush of the leaves in their desperate cycles.

i could very well marry the sunlight travelling your garden, who kisses my cheeks red and burning, whose garments’ threads i can only weave by your window.

you haven’t been 9 in a long time,

the flowers in your hair withered

and no longer sprout witchcraft

or wisdom untethered

in colours you no longer perceive.

monochrome spectra,

monochrome dreams,

a world barren, barren of thoughts,

of amber embraces, of light yellow words,

emerald touches or cerulean whispers.

the sun ceased kissing your forehead,

lonesome wanderer with rose eyes.

your wrists are solely held by the grey lens

deprived of benevolence, compassion,

even inspiration it knows not,

yet to some it appears as god?

i suppose some bushes it has burnt,

and more are to come, a desert,

vast emptiness awaits you,

and not the meadows promised.

i stand still, knees afloat,

rarely weight defines me,

buildings swipe at my sight:

orange, yellow, yellow, white,

i cannot comprehend them,

nor the weight of the life they hold

colourful parallel lines

to the string i was sold.

branches dancing their crowns,

enamoured with the wind,

still yet so far from me -

everchanging nymphs

chained to forever.

while my foot fits easily

between the tiles of the pavement,

it seems utterly futile to even try

to capture the world between few lines

give you a million kisses if i could,

paint a billion more i should,

torn apart by a longing oh so crude,

burning yet not smeared by the lewd.

darling, i mean not be rude,

i’d rather devour you if i could.

three pleas to a flare too good:

eternally adore you

let my blood flow into its water

‘til it becomes translucent-

eternally woven to the eternal,

the sea a vessel for my body-

my body a vessel for the sea.

Long and prolonged damnation,

sable horrid ink in my veins,

is my feather enough to release thee?

as of late i’ve been particularly stirred by my own place in the world. I have had concerns about my condition as a human being since way too early in my childhood, courtesy of the needles my brain was born with, about how to be a proper person in this society that has always felt foreign to me. the more i seeked to understand humans, the more enamoured i became with humanity, specifically with the details of day to day existence in which we lose self awareness and truly show ourselves. alas, i became comfortable with my place amongst people, but i further alienated myself from society. i knew from a young age with certitude that i wanted to be an academic, and i followed my path with ease, but the more i advanced, the more my confidence in my choice has dimmed, and the more it felt like a curse. i no longer know what my place is in academia, voided of the interconnectedness it requires to be meaningful. instead, i feel like i must become a machine of ideas if i wish to continue, ideas devoid of the beauty i grew up loving. all of this has fuelled my alienation from the work i do and pierced the love i had for it.

i once used to hold the sun barehanded, bind familiar pearls with its light, but suddenly the thread unraveled, crushing me beneath its weight. now eerie bruises slowly circle my neck, as if the string of my fate is knotted yet.

the pomegranate crumbles under my foot, its bloody seeds splash with empty aphorisms: a future once held in a fine porcelain urn, becomes fragments crawling amongst dust and worthless shards once it hits the ground; i was born with fingers too stiff to gather them.

bloody and passionate tongue licking scrawny circular ribs over and over and over and, with a terrible screeching, each second its spikes scratch the meat brutally off the bones.

violent kaleidoscope of instances, (days, hours, minutes, seconds, seconds, seconds, seconds, seconds…) of infinite degrees of freedom collapsing with every blink: to right now.

insufficiently lost in this body, on this map described by arrows; the arrow of the clock is held against my back: just enough to draw blood, to paint the trace of false inevitability. its pierce smells of pain that so far i’ve mistaken for guidance.

i will rise against my fate.