Bury Hypocrisy

On board of a train that rid the contour of my skin, we visited the museum of my mind where lies are thirty stories high.
See, I wanted to learn how to give, I learned how to eat it all,
I wanted to learn forgiveness, I learned revenge,
I wanted to learn love , I learned hate,
I wanted to defy the furious waves, instead I drowned,
I wanted to conquer the Everest instead, I conquered artifices and outright fakery,
On board of a train that rid the contour of my skin, we saw my soul folded in a bottle abandoned at sea.

On board of a plane that shove my vessels, we visited the cathedrals of my heart where the walls were scratched and the ground was cracked.
A choir was singing every single thing you ever did that bothered me, which is every single thing I miss today.
The sky painter had his head hammered on the ground tired of painting relentlessly a sky that kept on turning grey crackled by an endless thunder of unexplained anger.
The stained glass’s colors were fading after the dragon ate the sun, and felt humid at the touch of my hands.
The corridors of my heart felt like the corridors of a prison where the condemned awaits his sentence.
On board of a plane that shove my vessels, we saw my soul riding a bold zebra where all is black and white, all is extreme, everything imbalanced, chaotic.

See, a poacher stained my soul with the blooded feathers of my dove longtime gone and since my life is colorless.
See, a poacher stained my soul and I felt like I had nothing more to lose since he killed my dove, my inner peace.
See, I have nothing more to lose and nothing is more dangerous then someone who has nothing to lose.

Wait, let me cut the crap.
I can’t lose you.
I can’t lose our special bond.
I can’t, I just can’t.
Yes I still have something to lose and I’d kill even the air that will dare to come between us.
The museum of my mind will find his genuineness, the cathedrals of my heart their harmony, with less hypocrisy and more earthshaking truth facing attitude.

Dedicated.

SN

Game Over

The sun's red lightning electrified me, mistrals were galloping madly through my darkest thoughts propelling me to the cliffs of my soul.
I raised my hands to the sky giving my tears to grief between the stars and cold-blooded clouds.
I was turning into fire, my body warmed up, my teeth clenched, my hair crackled under the long flames that danced all through my body, my wings melted as well, and my feathers got lost in the sand of time. Acute pain suddenly sprouted inside my chest opening it, propelling cupid’s arrow to infinity.
I felt him, his dark presence, he was here between this fiery circus with his black wings ready to fly me to the meadows of heaven, when I shouted: “The day I die, please take care of my life”. He let me go for a while and I wrote.

The day I die, please take care of my life.
Don’t hurt her*, without her I couldn’t have written.
Tell her that without her the cathedrals in my heart wouldn’t have rung with love.
The day I die, please take care of my life,
Tell her how much I am going to miss her drowned in this coat of ground,
Tell her I forgive her all; the misadventures, the bad days and the heartaches.
The day I die please take care of my life,
Tell her how much I’ll miss seeing her float on a bed of roses waiting for dawn,
Tell her I am sorry for the days I didn’t appreciated her fully,
The day I die please take care of my life,
Tell her I regret nor will I forget a thing,
Tell her that tears rolled down my face when I watched her release herself from my body on a track of rock music full of nostalgia and melancholia.
The day I die, please take care of my life.
The day I die, I have only thought of it once, while writing this note.


* My life is a "she"

SN

Tous les matins du monde ...

Paris, kingdom of the dead, city of angels.

Seated among climbing roses, whispering a brave refrain, words were colliding softly around me melting like snowflakes in the abyss of silence.
I was waiting for the pale moon and its silver knives to trim the branches of the stars, waiting for the pale moon and its silver knives to sculpt your face into the stars, when the subtle smoke of his cigarette caressed my senses. It was the man laying on a bench next to me. He glanced at me, and with a smile where I later found all the laws of the universe combined, asked me: What is a human being to you?

A human being can’t fly, but chases birds.
A human being can’t breathe underwater, but fishes.
A human being believes he’s the strongest creature on earth, and gives himself the right to rule life and death.
A human being is the worst of all the animals, selfish, wilder then the felines in cages.
A human being finds pleasure in killing believing he’s superior to all, respecting nothing and no one.
A human being makes fun of the world instead of searching for a way to use a greater percentage of his mental capacities.
A human being uses the verb “can” as a verb of power and domination, forgetting that “can” can be : “because I can fail”.
A human being is a dressed animal blindly guided by his instincts; he’s the devil wearing Prada.

Between two puffs of his cigarette , he asked me: What are you?

I am a human being, with my goods and my bads.
I struggle with life and death not wanting to live and let die.
I can be the worst of all the animals, selfish, wilder then the felines in cages.
I often trade the verb “can” for “can’t” and get rolled in the storm of fakeness and appearances instead of focusing on my inside.
I am the crazy girl that has always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights of sleeping, worked too hard and too long or sobbed for a time in utter laziness, wild, undisciplined to a certain extent.
But sir, I am a seeker of truth.
I came to win my battles, drowning sadness and anxiety, glorifying smiles and honoring my failures.
I came to conquer hearts, but not any hearts, hearts of steel stained with battle-blood.
I came to rise to the stars, but first to rise up my soul till it glows iridescently.
I came to fly, to release the caged bird in me, to grasp its wings travelling to eternity.
I came to live, and I came to die saying that I have lived.


He smiled and asked me to join him on his bench.
We sat watching the waveless sea screaming to us that the essence of intelligence is skill in extracting meaning from everyday experience since “Tous les matins du monde sont sans retour.”

SN

Me too

The velvet waves of a spicy wind were floating a procession of stem-less roses in the copper sky leaving the lazy trees unmoved.
The sun was lying on the crystal horizon careful enough not to melt it, and the crescent moon was unveiling her face to the twinkling stars.
Strands of grass rose into arks of emerald upon lost lands while the arsenic river was rocking to sleep the rainbow trouts.
Lightly and tremulously they were singing wiping their feathers with green leaves. Who sang first? It remains unknown.
It wasn’t flesh nor blood: It was the embracing freedom of nature.

The broken angel was sewing back her wings shattered by her addiction to his lies, the useless furbelows of his words, and the shimmers of his eyes.
The fallen fairy was trying to reach back her flower by braiding her hair out of the dungeon where she was imprisoned.
Tinkerbell was striving to find her way back to Neverland, land of eternal youth, singing her soul and swallowing her tears.
It wasn’t flesh nor blood: It was the reality behind the stories we tell our children.

Glancing through my window, I saw it all.
I saw the freedom of nature, and the reality behind the stories I was told.
I saw a blooming nature, and the death of fiction.
I saw what wasn’t flesh nor blood and looked back to what was: The cage. A cage made of ribs, flesh and blood vessels through which my electrical maze of ideas was wired. An empty cage.
I looked back again at what wasn’t flesh nor blood: The bird. My bird, dressed in its emerald coat with a raging soul and rusty nails. This time, it stood still and motionless, watching me.
Watching my light footfall, whispering to me: The earth loves you tonight.

SN