Category Archives: Poetry

Embrace…

Dragon soul 2

There…

Where no thoughts remain at the door to nowhere.

Where autumn crawls under each fallen dream

to carry it beyond forgiveness…

I’ve learned to count backwards from illusion,

hoping to reach the point of no return

into some stranger’s thoughts about my own defeat.

When we sit down,

my soul and thee,

it’s me...

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Angst…

Embrace

In times of loneliness,

when all seems lost,

from deep within your solitude

an embrace shall reach

the tears of your anguish,

watering fragile strings of wildness,

resonating echoes of your primal self.

And as they grow,

small purple flowers

will obscure unwanted daylights…

 

© @WingsAutistic – Liberty of Thinking

The #autistic lives of pines…

Solitary autistic pine

I was born in Northern Transylvania’s Maramures, at the feet of majestic mountains, covered by ancient, noble forests, with their trees as brothers to us, and sisters. Strong beeches, venerable oaks, solitary pines, imbued with the crystalline waters of pure streams …

It’s the pines which fascinated my people for millennia, giving us our cradles, our tables, out beds, the pillars of our gold mines, and the coffins of our passing away.

Now, anyone seeing lots of pine trees may think it’s a forest, but they’re not…

Pine trees are solitary. Pines are #autistic

Always alone but never lonely, with one purpose, to reach ever higher, leaving behind as time passes by, as the crown moves upwards, dry, broken branches, like thorns awaiting for the careless passer by…

You see, the life of pines is in their roots and in their evergreen tops, the painful reason why you can’t embrace a pine tree except maybe when it’s young, a child. As it grows older, the crown moves upwards, leaving the naked, dried broken branches around, hurting anyone coming too close…

There’s a secret though…

If one is clever enough, they might find looking upwards to the green crown, a path in the dry broken branches like a ladder, leading the brave to the top. There, there are no sharp branches, just velvety fresh green fragranced new branches, allowing to be embraced and loved… Pines love only those daring to come close enough and climb to find who they truly are. And in exchange, they give something only pines can give, because they always return the careful touch and the embrace. They bleed the most beautifully perfumed resin, coloured of amber, smelling of frankincense, and the stronger the touch, the longer the embrace of the brave who wants to love them, pines bleed more resin, binding them as lovers to themselves, forever…

And when our time has come, we remain standing, calling out in stormy nights the final touch of heavens, the kiss of one last lightning, burning like torches, illuminating the paths of wandering lovers…

Asperger’s, the desperately beautiful trap of my soul…

I feel again and again, like my soul is trapped in a desperately, beautiful way in this song…

According to the “world”, I live with Asperger’s; the world with which I feel like communicating the way this transcendent performance does, in a desperate attempt to make myself understood without being hurt, again and again, silently attempting to contort my hand-branches into what I can’t ever say, but I would so much want “the world” to understand…

All the small greatness of a perpetual child, condemned to never grow older than the sap flowing behind the skin-bark “the world” can see.

If I have ever had a mirrored image, it’s this…

Defiantly refusing to hate my soul’s small room, never willing to leave the silent perfection of my perfect loneliness, cleansing nevertheless every day the window meant for anyone to look through, hoping that one day someone shall notice my waving branches and the small fruit growing atop my roots…

Please, if anyone enters, sit silently on my bed and dream my thoughts together with me, touch me not beyond your eyes, as I’ve left myself nearly naked hoping you’d understand what I can’t say.

And when you leave, cover me; don’t let ageing leaves ever scratch the silent story my bare skin would dream with you tomorrow, if you might return…

I’m forever grateful to Idan Raichel, for bringing together “me”, with my “self” in this performance, so I can ‘feel’ at least sometimes, myself

Where clouds merge…

Mad-Max-Fury-Road-Trailer-2-22-1280x532 (2)

Too late to paint the shades of darkness;

it’s after midnight, don’t you know?

So many wounds, and so much harshness,

of deaths outrunning lives too slow…

 

Do we remember our own image mirrored,

the smell of revenge on edges of time,

of tenderness scarred and hopes littered,

of poems unworthy of paper and rhyme?

 

Is this the end of all our beginnings?

Impossible lyrics to unwritten songs;

factual statements for obvious meanings,

no rights in the graveyards of all our wrongs…

Shelves to nowhere…

Andromeda

 

I need one more day to remember tomorrow,

a page underneath old volumes of pain,

stolen perhaps from where’s nothing to borrow,

oblivious libraries of not much to gain…

 

Pacing intrigued through shelves to nowhere,

wars of empires coveting gold,

buried beneath my belonging to somewhere,

echoes and voices of stories untold…

 

Stay where you are, impossible dancer,

blind choreography of a footless shoe,

growing a handful of hopes like a cancer,

a mirror between your image and you…

 

Tired and selfish at nobody’s table,

condemned to repeat your only dream,

able to live, to die unable,

vanished crescendo of a voiceless scream…

 

https://wiki.uiowa.edu/display/theatre/pictures+-+stars+and+other+deep-space+images

A metric analysis of impossible rhymes…

Flaming sword Eugène_Ferdinand_Victor_Delacroix

Life’s like a lobotomised impression
inside a golden skull;
too cheap to bury,
too expensive to keep.
A Stradivari of motionless complexities,
all sailing south, monstrosities,
as forbidden banners of condemned rebellions…
Tied to the mast of someone else’s travels,
on sleepless waves of no more dreams to catch,
blinded lighthouses
towering over shipwrecked carcasses
still flickering inside
the cheapest postcard of a better world,
conscripts of chemical genocides
fought over ivory ashes
of forbidden rattles
echoing impractical Edens.

The flaming sword is still there,
a metric analysis,
of impossible times…