he knows now why he
goes beyond the decency
of love, those clean hands
touching, acceptable by
those who want to be
with all of the kind people here,
he looks back in time
when the moss was not in the
stones yet on the river
love was not there
there were no traces of its
steps
there were no words
nothing speaks about affection
and acceptance
he once kissed love
and love said it is over
there is no design
no architecture for a dwelling
he gets away from this dream
goes inside a room
on the street that is dark and narrow
there are people without names
there naked and ready
to embrace what he brings
now he is at home
and there is no more regret
no comparison for what ought to
be that merely gives
him pain
beyond love of course
is lust that give him temporary
relief of faces
and bodies that he never once
did touch
ever.
These are poetic experiments. Man's quest for the poetic element never ceases. He is always caught in the eye of awe. He does not make the rules now. The rules change depending on the emotion that time and space feed him. He must see everything with his wide eyes gaping. The beginning of poetry too, like philosophy is wonder. Look and see. Do not stop wondering You are the poet. And everything is poetry. Wonder. Wander.
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