Imperfections of hollow endings,
the desperation of a ticking moth.
The tragedy of existentialism in a root of a cultivated involvements.
The music of a locked room goes to the bones,
the remembrance of a face somewhere in the middle of a breathless erection,
the indifference in tuning somehow keeps everybody alive in everybody.
Everything matters in acceptance,
the tyranny of an appalling invisibility.
The sirens, the lighthouse…
To be in the path of belief and understanding is to be quiet
and stolen and drunk to the distance.
The questions should never fade,
the fights of our childhood, of our cities,
of our grindings in a spaceship of realism…
The fights to be able to keep a white sand beach with grey clouds and shimmering waves inside every empty dreams…
The moon keeps the day, the sun sleeps with the night,
the piano has the wine
and I don’t have what is there to be mine.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Lindsay S.