Mezzanine Dreams

*

The deep melancholy dream,

escape the trenches of Sycily…

by the Thorn and Sound,

silently wiggling -

this is a Monsters ball,

creed of a Madman,

mad as a Hatter,

to the Hull and Platter,

seasons change,

water lilies by the stream

somewhere near,

… and who could deny your return,

home of a wild and mezzanine,

the Byzantium of your time.

**

Why wait and wither…,

while the going gets tough,

who?! - bereft the winch

would then sound the alarm (forlorn),

Love like a muddied water -

a brown god (or goddess),

***

to the wreckage, my brother,

death is just another path we must take,

and to conquer its domain,

sooner not later…,

its Zombies paradise, a park…,

a walk through the meadow,

another silent stream of a yellow river,

beat the Lonely Drum,

of lifes imperviousness

and the other one (in quiet thought),

Remembrance…

****

we would be green…,

and beyond green,

to touch the Unforeseen,

as All has touched you,

not with compulsions

or wrinkled teeth…,

bouncing against one another,

like William against Blake,

to the throneroom!…, -

Whats he mean by that?

No idea (worth it),

*****

and with that my dear gents,

…, and ladies of the night,

we part ways…,

Light turns to Day,

and creation is just another,

of Frosts roads,

by the sailing of the seas

(Liquid Landmasses)

Andromeda and Aphrodite,

I am Cetus, or maybe Perseus,

(who would know),

violently I boast with my magic

and swords…,

until you arrive -

my son,

until you arrive.

“Until you arrive - “ is a fragment of a story told by the Golden Lion to the Sea turtle while visiting the Great Halls of Infini.

It recounts the remnants of the Old World and the destruction of Time.

Told by an unknown author who might as well could be the Creator itself, hence the subtle hints of different myths and poets of those times and the Knowing.

More about that in the future and Chronicles of the Unadulterated.

The House of His Moods

To give greed greeds due

and by it be free of it…,

a pasty warrior of words

and spells and wholesome

deeds that some misread,

to some mismanaged hound,

a dog of fearsome…,

nay - a fickle meaning,

who in their right mind…,

show me one with the right 

mind,

but there in the farthest corner

of that scorched land,

The Hand of God,

saved from the sword

with bells and whistles

and the beauty,

to help him leave 

this hollow nest

where there are no 

birds voices,

no echoes and woe,

here we be - the lost

and loud,

the unsolemn,

a sand, a rain, a sea,

the quiet storm

and souls that sing,

intermingled with 

cherry blossoms, wind

and boggled eyes 

of the newborn child.

The Mass of Many Things

It was a damp and curiously sunny afternoon,
two of what couldn’t be together,

as a peaceful act of vengeance…,

trembling trees of unforgiveness,

we swallowed each moments nectar

and it made us drunk…, of life,

of meaning and the mass of many things,

lighter than a feathers touch,

it was too damp and too sunny…,

curious - I might say.

Then time went by,

men sat on their crooked chairs,

pinetrees were smoothly waving 

the cold mornings goodbye…,

as something was left unsaid,

a lovers touch, a souls kiss,

a Devils handshake…,

and the wrinkled newspaper

thrown into dumpsters pit,

regular irregularities.

Old Pinus was a dancer,

he placed baby trees with such care

as holding someone close to his chest,

as giving his heart piece by piece…,

all that was heard was a calm sigh,

nothing more was born that day.

Two or more of us died after that,

not from mnemonia or other written diseases,

but something of a more spiritual kind,

a souls journey…,

the spaces between the visible 

and invisible,

since non of us knew the issue at hand

and even if it was truly an issue…,

we wrote it off as something mystical

and never spoke of it again,

just perceived each our own change,

in heart, body, mind and soul,

Old Pinus was there…,

as all of us.

Some of those days passed by with extreme speed,

like a catcher in the rye…,

to our very own Eye,

just as we were about to be born again,

from all that moss,

covering the rocks like small hats,

Remembrence Of Things Past,

not in times convoluted space,

but of love and life,

that the Mother of this world gifts,

the aspartame kiss…, 

Neon dreams.

Full pledged flag hand,

holding the sun in its wake,

oh what a sight to behold,

and a memory flooded 

the gates of Tartarus…,

as we were walking all rivers,

with the flies, birds and the bees.

Saturday

the 17th of January, 2026

As it should be

The night is young…,

as it should be,

thoughts linger for a moment,

as saying “Stop, hold me more!”,

we are young trees,

world as a forest creaks…,

in its wake,

truth be told…,

this is a moment’s peace,

nothing lasts…,

and it is good,

as it should be.