Sharp strands of wind skipping the daylight. He stands there…
holding the silver horn. Herds of people converging through the narrow
escape route… announcing the arrival of the ready and quick.
Look behind your shoulder and smile back at them… they are tired and
hurt. Aeroplanes keeps blocking the sky, filling it with moist dust.
Read the creases of these addresses… spinning out your dreams… my
dreams… reaching out to the golden bridge… behind the old wooden
Can we start again… and look at bolts of light smearing through the
sky. We are here and waiting… for them to understand all these
stupid things near you and I.
Reading threads of memories… walking away from our
Stop him before he breaks the horn… This should be simple for you.
I hear clouds striking grey above… with lists of unfolding stories.
Tired lots of belongings, collecting simple little things off your
Rear view mirror showcasing your dense forehead… arranging the
complex arthematics of chance… smearing away things we love.
The yellow lamp post, same old walkways… makes remember more
everyday those silly indexes of coversations… ending everytime on
your last smile.
The mirage under the small bridge shines through your box shaped
heads… underlaying new details… newer stories.
You see my reflections every single day… grabbing these pockets of
air… displaying my failing sight… resting over your forehead.
Things are simple yet obscured.
We are here but lost.
Where are the things we recognized.