Dear Time

Dear Time, everyone believes that you exist but when I was younger a cousin of mine told me "there's always time to do things, even if you don't sleep", and from that moment I took that sentence as a fact and it made me look to modern days where everyone rushes and says that has no time, with quite a disbelief.

You see, then with the evolution and inevitable dissemination of the Internet, I started to see those ready-made sentences, quotes and more quotes, about Time and how they said that it's a matter of priority. That if the thing or person is important to someone they will make time for it.

The truth is that, in time, I started to not believe there is a Time. First in every turn of the year, because of the multiplicity of world calendars and timetables. Then, because of how we've learned that in other planets this variation of time, measured by distance in light years and all the different times of rotation and orbit of planets, is so entirely unlike ours that something that has happened on Earth has already happened a long time ago if we were in another planet, or would only come to happen in billions of years.

Needless to say, removing the knot on the brain, I was pretty much just left with that simple fact that Time is just another concept created and manipulated by humans in just yet another of our delusional attempts of control.

Sorry, but not... :)

The Observer

In the river of changes and the unquiet brook of time,
I have always been just an observer,
one who by the facts succeed lost any beliefs
and in time realized there's really no need to believe,
because what happens is just always fact.

Undefined and so no to be.
So there is no question here.

If we move forward
even like slowly dancing
underneath the water
Will we be?

Stasis is better.

You're the beginning and the end 
and the blood in between;
the blues and the rains, 
and the worshiper of what's seen. 

The only one conscious of my existence, 
the only one to whom I was the priority.

One day I'll return home
deep into the ocean where I was born.

From now on we are going forward like the giant clouds pushed by the wind: no cyclones, no still air, just an invisible movement that has no measurable speed. I will not recede into catabolism and you will not obsess on didacticism. Together, far in each of our countries, we will find our healthy land and stay away from stormy skies, so that one day soon we'll have crystal dawns everyday with the sun and the moon.

Do you have a fast car to drive us out of here? 
I miss you in the streets with your name and with whiskey lights embracing your womanhood, starting from your rebellious hair locks and ending in your ballerina feet. 
C'mon, let's just cross the bridge to the other side, where you're my Bonnie and I'm your Clyde. 

New Year's Eve Prayer by Jeff Buckley

"You my love are allowed to forget about the christmas you just spent stressed out in your parents house

You my love are allowed to shed the weight of all the years before like bad disco clothes, save them for a night of dancing, stoned with you lover

You my love are allowed to let yourself drown every night in bottomless wild and naked symbolic dreams

You my love in sleep can unlock your youth and your most terrifying magic and dreaming is for the courageous

You my love are allowed to grab my guitar and sing me idiot love songs if
You lost your ability to speak, keep it down to two minutes

You my love are allowed to rot and to die and to live again more alive and incandescent than before

You my love are allowed to beat the shit out of your television, choke it's thoughts and corrupt its mind kill kill kill kill the motherf**ker before the song of zombiefied pain and panic and malaise and its narrow right winged vision and its cheap commercial gang rate becomes the white noise of the world (turn about is fair play)

You my love are allowed to forgive and love your television

You my love are allowed to speak in kisses to those around you and those up in heaven

You my love are allowed to show your babies how to dance full bodied, starry eyed, audacious, supernatural and glorified

You my love are allowed to suck in every single endeavor

You my love are allowed to be soaked like a lovers blanket in the New York summertime with the wonder of your own special gift

You my love are allowed to receive praise
You my love are allowed to have time

You my love are allowed to understand

You my love are allowed to love

Woman disobey"

You saw how I was entirely you
.
You meaning the world to me
.

Then, the world ended

And I ceased to exist.

A poet is no one's. It is of the river and the sea, the ocean and the sky. All the darkness that fills the world guides the poet to strive for the light. And when the time ends and all is done, he floats into the void like no one.

From now on we are going forward like the giant clouds pushed by the wind: no cyclones, no still air, just an invisible movement that has no measurable speed. I will not recede into catabolism and you will not obsess on didacticism. Together, far in each of our countries, we will find our healthy land and stay away from stormy skies, so that one day soon we'll have crystal dawns everyday with the sun and the moon.

It's always the same poem I'm writing
It's never ending
It's only an attempt to take death a bit from us. 

Your Presence

There's a real difference between moss and mold:
Your presence a gift and future thrift,
Your presence in every object that I have and seek,
Your presence that shuts down the world outside,
Your presence that reclaims all the love of the Universe,
Your presence in which I almost believed before you left,
Your presence in the hands and feet with my every step,
Your presence most of all in my head and chest,
Your presence stuck in the confused labyrinth of my mind,
Your presence born out of surprise and summer's blinding light,
Your presence that is simple the smile on my face,
Your presence in the movies I watch,
Your presence the present I asked.

No one knows what the horizon will bring;  
if heavy rain, clouds or hot sun. 
They say you can plan a picnic  
but you can't predict the weather; 
you can always take an umbrella. 
People also say: hope for the best and for the worse prepare. 
Well, as for me, I don't know
 haven't got a clue of what's left. 
I'm not even able to think about it 
'cause I'm too busy enjoying the colours of the horizon sunset. 

What do you do with all the love that you got? Does anyone know how it's quite a lot? Spread your wings and dream away among stories of forget-me-nots. You put your dreams and creativity in a box, tuck all the love in too, hoping someday someone will notice that in the end Love is all that humans got.

They despise you, they ignore you, they wouldn't care if you ceased to exist. They don't look at you, because you are their consuming beast. Your name is Master of Time and they keep running against you, but you always catch them and show them who they truly are: just grains of sand to be engulfed by the ultimate tar. 

Does Summer love withstand the cold of Winter? Does Autumn romance survive the rain in Winter? Does the Winter body warmth surpass the temptations of Spring? I don't know, I've fallen in love with every season.