Drycicles

Unspoken words have no life beneath the blink-of-an-eye

They wither and pass like the fog on the hills, like the mist

On the Meadows; but if you silently stay, if you cling to the moment

You will hear what`s been spoken in that split of a second.

It`s neverending, truly a giant library of Babel where all are just copies

With the tiniest of mistakes, there are the true “love you’s” to the wrong person

There are the “goodbyes” that were not meant to break. The maelstrom of

Unspoken words

The immensely stratified web whose chords are tiny mistranslated transcripts

Just await to be written. You can’t be wrong when you write, this is the convention

That sometimes needs another edition of the book to be pushed on the table.

Thus I lay all my thoughts as they come, as they go, let it fly – says the voice

Let it flow. And one day, just one day, looking back I will see what was right

Not to write, but to know.

G.

Look at me, God damn you! Turn your eyes from the floor,

I’ve arrived at your door, can’t you at least

Pretend

I am here?

Look at me, I say! It’s been so many years I’ve been

Navigating

These oceans with the albatross down my neck. And despair, oh,

Torment and despair

There was little to do but was so much to bear. And now, chuckle,

I’ve arrived as was promised by that goddamning oracle that bound

Soul

To my soul. Goddamn fish in a bowl, yes I was!… so indulge me this ranting

That takes place on a field laying gray, me, the wind, and these pictures

In Sargassian tones,

These nonsensical pictures. Time flew by, on a Sunday.

It was Hell’s Day. That’s it.

There is a cure for everything if you want to forget,

We have the blue pills, the red and the yellow,

The white ones will set your consciousness

On reset

And so we’ll get to say “hello”

More often

Come in our shop of emotional pharmacy,

What does ail you, we’ll fix, we create new beginnings

And we tie the loose ends with shoe-strings and lead

Pinnings

In a dufus expansion of

Bureaucracy.

Are you new to this concept of mental disorder?

Here’s the one-oh-one on how to learn to be mad

To be curious, delusional, catatonic, or

Sad.

Once you’ve come over, there is no return

Just a nice green alley of blossoming flowers

That just refuse to

Burn

I have found a name for my chronic dysphoria

That prevents me from engaging in creative delusion

At my trial, if I’m culpable of any

Crime

Just cite me, I suffer from a thymic

Contusion.

I have hit my two ganglia with the rock and the

Stone

When I’m gone, they will say

I was athymhormic

The dorm in the dormic

In the Dormicum

Day.

If you search for my diagnosis

Please observe my prognosis

Is poor

And this disorder marked by a lack

of Motivation

Will perhaps prove to be a Divine

Intervention.

A time, of thyme, of dysthymic

Harmonia

Blessed by

Athymhormia.

It was born out of love and of feeling forgotten,

All the chance that we’d hold we have built with our hands,

In the lands of the free all the wish come will happen,

Dream, sweet snow-child, in the dunes with the sands.

We were born out of darkness, in the new light of dawn,

With each solstice we flourished, like the mountains phantasm,

By denying each chasm, and embracing our own

Right of passage